


All That's Mine I Carry With Me

by a_sparrows_fall



Series: Love and Rhetoric [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Ending, Anal Sex, Author is also pro-Dettlaff, Blow Jobs, Bottom Geralt, But please don't let that scare you away, Choose Your Own Adventure, Choose Your Own Ending, Dettlaff was dead to begin with, F/M, Hook-Up, M/M, Making Out, Pining, Reference to blood drinking, Sass, although no actual blood is consumed in this fic, so much sass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 02:52:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12224247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_sparrows_fall/pseuds/a_sparrows_fall
Summary: Geralt doesn’t want Regis to leave Toussaint. Not yet. They have unfinished business… if only they can both avoid the ghosts of their pasts.A smutty take on that last Regis/Geralt scene in ‘Blood and Wine’— including two Choose Your Own Endgame mini-epilogues! :)





	1. Mandrake

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the ending of Blood and Wine where...
> 
>  
> 
> (**spoilers!**)
> 
>  
> 
> ...Geralt retrieves Syanna from the fairy-tale realm, and subsequently has to fight Dettlaff to the death. Syanna's outcome is irrelevant to this story.
> 
> Contains lots of canon from both the games and books, but if you've never read the books, I think you'll still be okay; I tried to be fairly clear with the exposition.

__

‘ _Omnia mea mecum porto._ ’

__

‘What?’

__

‘I have very little luggage.’

__

-Regis and Geralt, **Lady of the Lake**

__

* * *

“After all that toil, I believe we deserve a bit of a rest.”

“That we do.”

Neither of them says much of anything for some time after that, sitting peacefully beside the lake, sipping mandrake cordial, simply enjoying the near silence. Each man retreats to his own thoughts, both content to merely think them in the other’s presence.

The stillness is broken by a raven’s call, followed by the rush of its feathers as it takes to the air. Geralt’s hand drifts instinctively to his medallion; their confrontation with the bruxa from only an hour before is still fresh in his mind.

But the pendant lies still, not twitching in the slightest. There are no vampires in the vicinity. Except for Regis, of course.

Regis, while in his human form, has never caused Geralt’s medallion to move.

Geralt almost wishes he would; it would serve as a pleasant reminder that Regis is still alive.

Gods. Dettlaff.

Few things in the world can kill Regis permanently, and another vampire called Dettlaff nearly had.

Dettlaff restored Regis to life after his last near death encounter—one Geralt remembers vividly. Geralt supposes some of Dettlaff's blood flows in Regis's veins even now, both from Regis’s regeneration years ago, and from their final fight only days before.

They had been something close to brothers, having been from the same clan of vampires. To say it must have hurt Regis terribly to kill Dettlaff is more than an understatement; Geralt saw the pain in Regis’s face at the moment he interceded on Geralt’s behalf, and he can hardly imagine what it must have been like. (For a bleak moment, Geralt considers having to face that choice opposite Regis, to be forced to kill him, and feels his throat close up in response. It’s bad enough that he had to watch Regis die once. The thought of killing him… Geralt can’t conceive of it.)

Ultimately, though, Regis had made his choice, and the side he chose was Geralt’s. True, it was the side of law and order—in the end, Dettlaff’s crimes couldn’t be excused—but the witcher hoped there was more to Regis’s decision than the execution of justice.

Once, they had travelled together in search of Ciri and fought side by side, Regis sacrificing his health and his identity on Geralt's behalf more times than the witcher could count.

And even now, Regis is choosing to spend his final hours in Toussaint by Geralt’s side, drinking and whiling away the time in idle conversation punctuated by companionable silence.

Geralt wonders if that’s the extent of their bond: drinking and killing, threaded together with nostalgic feelings.

Though, on the subject of libations...

"Regis,” Geralt clears his throat, pulling the vampire’s attention. “If memory serves me... You said you didn't drink when we met. Alcohol, I mean. You let all of us—Dandelion, Zoltan, Milva and I—drink all your mandrake cordial."

Regis nods, a smile tugging lightly at the corner of his mouth. “Your mind is as nimble as ever, it seems,” he confirms.

“Did you have a change of heart?”

The vampire sighs, seemingly displeased. “No, it’s just…” he gestures, indicating the area around them, “this damned _place_. ‘Wine is sacred in Toussaint.’ Drink is a part of everything here. It’s difficult not to be influenced by local custom, even for one as set apart from it as I. And...” He drops his gaze, studying the blades of grass sprouting up beside the rock he’s seated on.

“Tonight is a wake, I suppose,” he adds, voice hushed. “It feels appropriate. To lose myself, just a bit. To help let go.”

After a short pause, he glances back up at Geralt, his distinctive knowing grin having returned. “And to help celebrate. It’s a reunion as well.” He nods at the witcher, then lifts his glass in a toast. Geralt returns the gesture, and they drink.

“I... know it’s a bad habit,” Regis concedes. “The booze, that is.” He glances about the clearing, his vision unaffected by dimness of twilight quickly giving way to night. “One more reason to be on my way soon.”

“When do you think you’ll leave?” Geralt tries to sound as casual as possible, masking his expression by draining the dregs of his mug.

“On the morrow. At dawn, I should think.”

Geralt regards Regis over the lip of his cup, arching an eyebrow high. They’ve had more than a few rounds, and while both of their metabolisms are more efficient than the average human’s, neither will be completely immune to the pain of a hangover if they keep going in this fashion.

“Oh, all _right_ ,” Regis allows. “Not dawn. But sometime tomorrow. I see no reason to delay my departure.”

Something twists in Geralt’s gut; he feels Regis’s casual answer worming its way into the soft parts of him. It wasn’t meant to hurt, but he can’t deny that it did: a bit of conversational shrapnel.

“Can’t think of a one, huh?” he asks, a rueful grin spreading on his face even as he says it. ( _Godsdamned mandrake moonshine._ )

He stands to pace, hoping to turn away from Regis—anything to keep what he’s feeling from his expression.

He stops only a few steps in. Suddenly he can feel the effect of the cordial in full force. He’s not… impaired, not yet. But years of imbibing every decoction known to witcher-kind has taught him to track the most minute changes in his ability to perceive the world.

His chest is warm, his balance is a fraction off, and his legs feel slightly heavier than normal. An average man would likely be stumbling and slurring his words at this point; Geralt’s reflexes are still good enough for everything except fighting something with superhuman speed and invisibility—a large cloud of Foglets, perhaps, or another Bruxa.

There are tasks of another nature, though, that he doubts his ability to pull off at any level of sobriety.

 _Fuck_. _Careful_.

Standing only a few feet from where the vampire is sitting, feeling exposed, he peers into his empty mug, steadfastly avoiding Regis’s gaze.

“Geralt…” Regis addresses the witcher, his tone inquisitive. “Is there something you wish to ask me?”

“No,” Geralt tells him, still not meeting Regis’s gaze. “It’s nothing.”

“Hmm,” Regis intones, sounding thoroughly unconvinced. (Geralt is, and apparently always will be, a terrible liar.)

The grass crunches softly, and Geralt finally looks up when Regis is standing immediately before him.

The vampire’s eyes—perhaps tinged even a bit more red at the edges than usual—are soft, and his smile matches them.

He holds up the small white bottle with the curved neck he’s been filling their mugs from, and shakes it gently, demonstrating the absolute absence of a sloshing sound.

“Enough talk of tomorrow. It’s still quite early, and we’ve run dry.” He nods in the direction of his (still rather ridiculous) home within the cemetery’s central tomb. Clichés aside, Geralt realizes, it must make quite an excellent cellar.

“I shall retrieve another. Or a pitcher of water, if you prefer. Join me?” Regis turns slowly in the direction of the graveyard, giving Geralt a moment to follow.

Geralt hesitates. He could leave now. He probably should. Say his goodbyes and head back to Corvo Bianco. It wouldn’t be so different from the ebb and flow of so many other relationships in his life: experience extraordinary adventure and hardship with a companion for a short while, and then not see them again for years at a time, if at all.

And at least this time, he would _get_ to say goodbye to Regis.

But as he watches the vampire meander away, slipping past the stone fence bordering the cemetery, the air seems to escape from Geralt’s lungs at the thought of this being his last meeting with his friend.

He can’t leave yet.

A full accounting of his tipsiness complete, Geralt gets his bearings and shakes off the sluggishness, jogging to catch up with Regis as he begins to descend into the crypt.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he follows Regis into the tomb and succeeds in catching him; he’s pleased not to have stumbled in the slightest, when Regis unexpectedly turns back at the last moment.

“Geralt, I was—oh—”

The witcher halts his momentum as quickly as he can, but the two still collide, chest to collarbone, Regis at the bottom of the first set of stairs, while Geralt is poised on the final step.

They are of a height with one another on solid ground, but with the benefit of a few inches of stone beneath his feet, Geralt is able to look down at Regis: his eyes wide and fixed on the witcher, his mouth hanging just slightly open in surprise.

Neither man moves to create additional space between them, and Geralt sees no panic or disgust betrayed in Regis’s stare; indeed, it’s hard to tell for sure, but Geralt would swear he sees something… more. He wants like hell to believe it’s not all in his booze-addled imagination.

It’s little more than a second, but before Regis’s mouth can close, before he can change the curve in the delightful pout of his lower lip, Geralt catches it with his own.

As far as approaches to romance go, Geralt has tried, with varying degrees of success, a number of different techniques, having been both pursuer and pursued.

Even so, it’s very unlike him to simply… barge in. Make moves, or even assumptions, without some sort of assent or verbal invitation.

But this is _Regis_. Which means Geralt has no idea what he’s doing.

Regis is not only male (by the numbers, not Geralt’s average quarry, though not completely unknown to him), and not only a vampire, but a scholar, and a being far older and more experienced than he is.

Most importantly, Regis is a friend. A very, very good friend. One of the most loyal Geralt has ever had.

Geralt has been known, at times, to try and keep pace with Regis’s loquacious elegance, but, in this case, words have failed him utterly.

What _can_ he say? What words could possibly be adequate?

A chance moment of unexpected intimacy has spurred him into action, and now he’s hoping to gods he hasn’t made a mistake.

(Additionally, if there is a partner to press his luck with, the vampire is, to a certain manner of thinking, not a bad choice. In the back of his mind, Geralt knows that if Regis is offended or feels taken advantage of by the witcher’s sudden advances, the deceptively meek-looking barber-surgeon could toss him halfway back up the stairs or fade into a wisp of smoke. If there’s a power imbalance here, Geralt is aware that he is well and truly the deficient party.)

But after a brief moment of stillness—which feels like a small eternity to Geralt, his own heartbeat hammering in his ears all the while—he feels fingers brush against the bristles of his beard, the palm of a worn leather glove cupping his jaw, and soft lips moving against his in slow, tender reciprocation.

They’re softer than Geralt had imagined for some reason. (Not that he had imagined it. Much.) And a bit thinner than Yen’s or Triss’s. Or Villentretenmerth’s, for that matter.

For all that Geralt was the one to dive headlong into the kiss, he lets Regis set the pace. It’s a profoundly gentle, thoughtful kiss, and Geralt can feel kindness in every movement; he damn well hopes it’s not just politeness or (fucking hell) pity.

When Regis breaks the kiss, he leans back against the stone wall of the stairwell, but leaves his hand on Geralt’s cheek, drawing Geralt along with him, indicating the movement is one of relaxation, not rejection. Geralt leans forward, resting his forearm against the wall above Regis’s head.

Regis’s eyes flicker over Geralt’s face, lit up with curiosity, as if seeing him anew.

“That was… unexpected,” he says at last.

Geralt considers placing his other hand on the vampire’s chest, but thinks better of it. “But not… unwelcome?”

“Quite the contrary,” Regis assures him softly. Lines of confusion are still writ in his face, however. “What made you… decide to…?”

Geralt’s not sure he’s ever heard Regis leave a sentence remain unfinished, so great is his love of words and saying them.

“I don’t know,” Geralt grinds out before anything else can escape his mouth.

It’s a godsdamned lie, of course. He knows it, and likely Regis does, too.

_Dettlaff. Dettlaff nearly killed you, and then this damned moonshine hit me, and I couldn’t let it go, not a moment longer—_

Under Regis’s questing, questioning gaze, Geralt feels his pulse thrumming away, not slowing down a whit; he lets his eyes dart downward as his friend addresses him.

“Are you quite sure you want to pursue this?”

 _Yes_ , a voice in Geralt’s head screams, _I’ve been more sure of few things in my entire life._

He remains silent instead, and simply shrugs. Like it costs him nothing, like all of this means nothing, and as he does it, he has no idea how the act doesn’t cause him physical pain.

“Is it… really so strange?” he asks, trying to keep his tone light. “We have things in common.”

“Of course,” Regis agrees. “But I daresay a witcher has more in common with a sorceress. Perhaps a particular sorceress.”

 _That_ gets Geralt’s attention. Pushing off the wall, he descends the last step and turns, letting Regis’s hand fall away from his face.

Yen. Everyone always has to bring Yen into it. Even when she’s gone—even when they’ve parted on bad terms, as they did this last time—she’s still there.

“If I said one of my ravens spotted a stallion carrying a woman dressed in shimmering black in the direction of your vineyard—”

Geralt twists his head back in Regis’s direction but doesn’t turn his body to face him, spitting his words toward the ground. “Then I’d say you’re trying damned hard to get rid of me. There’s no way that could _possibly_ be true.”

It’s over between him and Yen. For good. He can feel it this time, in the marrow of his bones. Their last fight was ugly, the things they said unforgivable. Their last fuck even had a sense of sad finality to it. It’s as plain as day to Geralt: she’s never coming back.

But Regis has no way of knowing that.

A djinn might no longer tie Geralt’s fate to Yennefer, but their extensive shared history still binds them, at least the in the eyes of the rest of the world. People will always ask him about her, probably until the end of his days, and he’ll simply have to bear it. He’s borne worse before.

He just wishes he didn’t have to right _now_ , and not with his present company.

All of that aside, unbeknownst to Regis’s birds, Yen only wears black and white—the colors are akin to her calling card. It’s much more likely that some noble from Beauclair was simply enjoying a ride near his vineyard.

“Mm,” Regis hums, a sound Geralt has begun to associate with Regis believing him not at all. “Geralt…” he sighs. There’s a rustle of fabric as he gestures, presumably at himself. “You can’t want this—”

The witcher whirls back, pointing at his friend.

“ _Don't_ tell me what I—” He shakes his head, calming himself. “ _Don't_ ,” he repeats, more quietly this time.

Gods. He’s making an absolute mess of this.

Regis raises his hands, a show of his retreat.

“Apologies,” he offers, entirely sincere. “You're quite correct. I had no right to presume. I only meant…”

He gestures as he pauses, reorganizing his thoughts. “I wanted to make sure that, for whatever this is, however sudden—or brief—that both of us are coming to it from a place of sincerity and trust.”

Anger flares bright behind Geralt’s eyes for a moment, and he grits his teeth; it takes all his will to keep quiet while he takes in that sentiment.

Regis… Regis doesn’t trust him?

He searches the vampire’s face for some sign, some indication of what he must have missed, what he must have done wrong—and the expression he finds there takes him back, oh, many years indeed.

It’s exactly the way Regis looked at him during that first stay in Toussaint, when their little hansa lingered too long in luxury, spending the better part of the winter there before setting off to try to find Ciri again. 

It occurs to Geralt that _that’s_ Regis’s entire frame of reference for Geralt’s love life. The witcher had come off the trail to Toussaint and fallen straight into bed with the first sorceress he met. And treated her poorly at that—no doubt Regis heard about how he’d he called Fringilla ‘Yen’ in bed more than once.

Regis trusts Geralt as a friend, that much is clear. But insofar as romance… well, perhaps Regis is right to remain aloof.

Dettlaff’s adoration of Syanna was the start of his undoing: she destroyed him, pushing him past his limits until he snapped.

Geralt sincerely hopes Regis doesn’t think so poorly of him that he’d put him in the company of a liar and blackmailer like Syanna, but even so, asking for a little reassurance after what they’ve both been through… seems decidedly more reasonable to Geralt than it did at first blush.

This is—or at least, would be—quite the change in their relationship. Geralt is not surprised that _he’s_ nervous, but it’s a little perplexing (and equally charming) to realize that Regis is, too.

The witcher takes a step toward Regis, his cat’s eyes fixed on the vampire, who waits patiently for an answer.

Geralt takes a deep breath.

“You’re not a stand-in,” he says, trying to imbue his own voice with the same sense of calm and clarity Regis has always gifted him with. “You’re not some… _Fringilla Vigo_ I’m trying to bed out of loneliness, or some misplaced sense of gratitude.”

He raises his hand between them, letting it hover, his fingers curling slightly, seeking, but not touching—not yet.

Gods, it hurts, to stand here, to hold Regis’s gaze while saying the words; it’s like looking at the sun.

He’s only ever felt this vulnerable with one other person, and he was bound to her by indescribably powerful magic.

He’s not entirely sure he’s prepared to consider what might bind him to Regis.

“I… I want _you_ ,” he promises, voice even lower and more hoarse than normal.

He finally tilts his head and flicks his eyes away, unable to hold still any longer.

“For whatever that’s worth,” he adds, self-deprecatingly.

The vampire releases his hold on the strap of his satchel and captures the fingers of Geralt’s hand, studying them as he squeezes them gently.

“It’s worth a great deal,” Regis assures him, his voice also dropping into a lower register. “A _great_ deal. And, to answer your earlier question...”

Regis closes the distance between them, their faces only inches apart now.

“No. It isn't strange. Not at all. I've always found you—”

And that’s _it_ , Geralt has _had_ it; he charges ahead once again, stopping Regis’s absolutely irritating, absolutely delicious mouth with another kiss.

It was either that, or let his heart burst, and he isn’t about to let himself expire now, not after all of this—and certainly not with what lies in store for them, either.

This kiss is deeper than the first, drawing more confidence from Geralt, with more heat passing between them. Geralt lets his tongue dart into Regis’s mouth, teasing, trying to feel him out. And, because curiosity gets the better of him, using it to try to catch the tip of one of Regis’s fangs. He doesn’t quite manage it—he can still feel Regis holding back for some reason, maintaining his guard.

Geralt finally parts the kiss. They have plenty of time to learn one another, he supposes.

“Regis,” Geralt huffs a soft laugh against the vampire’s cheek, admonishing him playfully. “You _still_ don’t know when to stop talking.”

“Oh?” Regis whispers coyly, his hands roving over the leather armor straps criss-crossing Geralt’s chest, bracing himself against the witcher.

With no warning whatsoever, Regis becomes a burst of speed personified, an inhuman force slamming Geralt back against the opposite wall; the impact takes Geralt’s breath away. The only things that have ever thrown him that quickly and with that much force were trying to kill him, and the sensation now is no different, sending adrenaline spiking through his body.

Geralt’s hands fly up and out to the side, fingers splayed, instinctively starting to reach for his sword and prepare a Sign. He stills their movement, telling himself there’s no danger here…

...Is there?

Regis’s eyes flash, sclera gone entirely black. He snarls, quick as a viper, lunging for Geralt’s throat—

—and sets his tongue against the tensed muscles and tendons there, licking a long, slow line upward, just to the side of Geralt’s adam’s apple. Reaching the soft flesh beneath the witcher’s chin, he sucks it into his mouth, nipping at him with careful precision, using only his blunted incisors.

Geralt’s cock jumps; the tension flows out of him as he sags against the wall, letting it take his weight; he _moans_.

“ _Oh_ ,” Regis repeats; it’s a discovery this time, a revelation, not a question. He leans back a span, and regards Geralt gleefully, his eyes having returned to their normal state. “You rather _enjoyed_ that, didn’t you?”

Regis chuckles, tutting in mock concern at the stunned, shallowly-breathing lump that until a moment ago was his friend.

The better part of him melting—and one part growing rapidly more firm—Geralt considers that if he had had any concerns about Regis holding back, they have been completely dispelled.

His fingers finding purchase in Regis’s gambeson, his only reply is a throaty growl, which is the entire extent of language he can manage at the moment.

“Geralt,” Regis chides, punctuating every few words with more delicate, unhurried nips at the witcher’s neck and throat, “We - _talked_ about this - human obsession to - overlay these... _fetishes—_ ” he lingers, his tongue dwelling on the soft space under Geralt’s chin again—“these repressed fantasies on vampirekind. It’s—” he catches Geralt’s lower lip in his teeth, tugging softly before releasing, “— _unseemly_ , is what it is…”

“Spare me,” Geralt rasps, “like _you’ve_ never—”

His banter is interrupted by a distinctive hissing noise emanating from further into the tomb, followed by a ghastly wail: two sounds that Geralt absolutely abhors, because they tend to accompany malevolent spectral energy becoming annoyingly material.

His medallion shakes violently in warning where it rests, atop the join of his collarbones, and he doesn’t even turn his head to look at the creature taking shape, merely noting the eerie light shining just beyond the edge of his peripheral vision, casting a greenish glow on Regis’s face. 

_A wraith_ , thinks Geralt. _Gotta be._

_Gods. Fucking. Dammit._

Regis sighs his disappointment and irritation.

“Bloody hells,” he curses, his breath caressing Geralt’s chin. “One of the only drawbacks of living here, I’m afraid. They don’t typically bother me, but your presence must have stirred them up.” He looks pleadingly at his friend. “I’m terribly sorry, but... would you mind—?”

Geralt finally glances sideward, narrowing his eyes at the nightmarish ethereal being floating in the darkened passageway, just at the bottom of the second set of stairs: the only obstacle between him and untold pleasure with the intoxicatingly pliant vampire in his arms.

The wraith has _no_ idea what it’s in for.

Geralt presses a brief kiss against Regis’s temple before stepping away from him and pushing off the wall. He tugs at the sword belt across his chest with his left hand, and reaches back to grip the hilt of his silver sword with his right.

* * *

The speed with which Geralt dispatches the wraith might be a new personal record, if that was something he cared about at all in the moment (it isn’t).

He was, to be fair, _highly_ motivated.

The pale purple glow of the Sign of Yrden cast on the ground fades as the two men tread over its boundary. Stepping neatly past the pile of spectre dust, they make their way through the catacombs, unable to keep their hands—and lips—off one another.

As loath as Geralt is to protest Regis’s eagerness, he argues that they probably shouldn’t start shedding clothing (and more importantly, weapons) until they reach their destination; there are a number of longer lasting protective auras they can use upon arrival, but in the meantime, it’s probably best not to tempt fate, lest they run into another wraith en route, with both their literal and figurative pants down.

Regis concurs with this reasoning, but it doesn’t quell their ardor any, and every few steps finds one of them pawing at the other, fingers tugging and searching at the edges of cotton, leather and maille, as if learning all the catches and fastenings in advance.

They turn a corner and the witcher pulls his beloved toward him, Regis’s back to his chest. Geralt licks at Regis’s jawline and nibbles at his earlobe, a breathy “ah” sound of delight escaping him.

Geralt draws in a deep breath, inhaling the slightly damp air of the tomb and smiles; there’s no place he would rather be than several feet underground, necking with a vampire.

The turn of phrase snares in Geralt’s mind; he is almost afraid to ask, given the object of his affection’s garrulous nature, but he can’t quite let the idea go. 

“You may have already said this—” he begins.

“It’s quite probable,” Regis agrees before even hearing what Geralt’s question is, simply assessing the odds.

“—but you can’t have expected me to listen to _all_ your insufferable ramblings about your history.” He relents in his amorous advances momentarily, pacing beside Regis. “ _Do_ vampires bite ever each other? As a sign of affection, I mean.”

“Hmm,” Regis furrows his brow, considering; apparently the answer isn’t a simple one ( _of course it isn’t_ , Geralt thinks, stifling a laugh).

“It’s… not so much different from the role of, say, bondage, or certain types of violence, in your human relationships,” Regis explains. “The act is most commonly associated with feeding—drawing life from a lower being—or death: finishing off another vampire permanently.”

Anyone who didn’t know Regis well might have been so caught up in the scholarly explanation that they’d have missed the tiny quaver in his voice at that last sentence.

But Geralt, upon hearing it, extends his hand, curling two fingers around Regis’s own in gentle reassurance. Regis smiles faintly before continuing.

“So, you see, it has no role in a… traditional relationship. It would be, in most cases, deeply offensive. _Especially_ if attempted without serious discussion beforehand.”

Sensing that’s not the end of the explanation, Geralt raises his eyebrows.

Yeah, he nearly regrets asking.

He considers, however, that there are certain courses of action he can take that were not previously available to him during Regis’s monologues.

Geralt steps closer, and, still holding the vampire’s hand, guides it down to rest on his ass.

“...Ah.” Regis blinks owlishly and tries to maintain his train of thought, which makes Geralt grin. Eventually, Regis’s sense of reason prevails and he continues talking, though his hand remains steadfastly planted on Geralt’s rear as they walk.

“Well. In any case. Biting… can be used as a sort of… shorthand. To signal baseness.” Regis smirks back and squeezes the bum he’s been gifted. “A playful depravity. That one in the relationship is… lower, or… in thrall to the other. In a mutually consensual way, of course.”

“Power play, you mean?” Geralt asks. “Dominance—”

“—and submission,” Regis finishes. “Yes, exactly.”

His voice echoes as they reach the high-ceilinged central room of the tomb that until recently served as Regis’s study and laboratory. It looks much sparser than when Geralt was down here a few days ago; clearly Regis wasted no time while Geralt was being honored at Beauclair palace, using the hours to pack away his books, charts, and chemical equipment into crates and bags.

They both regard the room’s sudden emptiness, but neither mentions what it portends.

“So,” Geralt steps directly in of Regis’s line of sight in a transparent attempt to distract him. “The… consensual biting. Have _you_ ever—?”

Regis leans closer, placing his hands on Geralt’s neck, pulling him close.

“Wouldn’t—” he plants a quick peck on the witcher’s lips, answering with a cheeky smile, “— _you_ like to know.”

“Didn’t meant to be nosy,” Geralt offers, placing a comforting hand on Regis’s back.

Regis shakes his head, and makes a gesture that looks like he’s waving any possible offense away.

“Pish-tosh, I’m only teasing,” he declares lightly—though Geralt notices he still doesn’t answer the question. Geralt half-smiles apologetically.

Regis pulls away just enough to clasp Geralt’s hand, and begins to lead him—Geralt assumes—to another room. He hasn’t seen the whole of the tomb and wonders how big it is, and where Regis is taking him.

To where he sleeps? Hopefully. Geralt briefly wonders if, for all of Regis’s stories of vampire refinement, they’ll end up fucking on top of a crypt, or something equally preposterous. He supposes he’ll find out soon enough. (Gods, Dandelion can never find out about that, should it happen, because Geralt will never hear the end of it. The unicorn was bad enough.)

They pass the large copper still, which must be the origin of Regis’s curiously powerful moonshine. Given its enormity, Geralt surmises it will be staying put for the time being. Regis will have to obtain some other brewing equipment in Nilfgaard—he always seems to manage to do so, no matter where he ends up.

Just beyond the still is a smaller leather pack with a bedroll affixed to the top flap—likely Regis’s personal belongings, to take with him immediately upon his departure, while the rest will be sent for later.

Geralt nearly misses the small, clear bottle resting next to the bag. Nearly, but not quite. 

“As I said before, I value your curiosity—”

Regis halts mid-phrase when he feels resistance, realizing that Geralt has stopped following him.

Geralt is rooted to the spot, unable to tear his eyes away from what he’s discovered. Regis follows the witcher’s line of sight, and tips his head up in recognition the moment he sees what Geralt sees. “Ah.”

“What,” Geralt says after some silence, pointing at the vial, “is that?”

Regis sighs, replying slowly. “I’d wager that it’s exactly what you think it is.”

The contents of the bottle are plain to see: it contains the tip of a pale-skinned finger, less than an inch, severed cleanly above the distal joint. The casual observer might be forgiven for thinking it was human.

But Geralt is, to his cost, extremely familiar with the claw-like nail still attached to it.

Geralt drops Regis’s hand and takes a step back, pointing accusingly in his direction. “You _said_ you cremated the rest of the remains—”

“And I did—all but this last sample.”

They’ve had several conversations about vampire regeneration, and if Regis could be reborn of a pile of immolated flesh, Geralt considers that Dettlaff could be brought back from this carefully ( _purposefully,_ he thinks, wincing) preserved sample, despite Regis’s reassurances about the permanence of death when caused by another higher vampire.

It’s all Geralt can do not to storm out immediately. He had been, even before pushing their relationship to take a more romantic turn, feeling badly about things he’d said to Regis since reuniting with him. He’d been cagey about Regis’s questions, and chided Regis for using ravens to spy on him. But now his suspicion practically seems justified. _This_ , after all Regis’s talk of ‘sincerity’ and ‘trust.’

“How many chances does he get, Regis?” Geralt spits.

“I don’t know,” Regis answers, in that exasperatingly genuine tone of his. “How many chances have you given Yennefer? And she you?”

“ _Stop_ bringing her into this— _she_ didn’t massacre a city!”

Regis nods and puts a hand up, as if shielding himself from Geralt’s words.

“You’re right, of course. That was poorly said. I merely—” He breaks off, shaking his head, as if acknowledging further justification is unhelpful.

But as much as he wants to deny it, Geralt _does_ see the parallel: he has endlessly and steadfastly defended Yen to Dandelion and others, even, perhaps, at times when she didn’t deserve it.

Geralt wonders if _other_ parts of his relationship to Yen are analogous to Regis’s connection to Dettlaff. He suspected they were more than friends; this seems it clinch it. He tries not to consider that some of his ire might be rooted in jealousy as much as betrayal and concern for others’ safety.

“If you wanted to leave now,” Regis says, sounding resigned, “I would understand entirely. But. If it makes any difference at all…”

He paces closer to Geralt, but doesn't try to touch him, to bridge the gap between them, merely presenting himself as penitent. “It’s never been done—perhaps never even attempted. My preliminary research seems to indicate that, given the circumstances of Dettlaff’s death, regeneration—more specifically, _resurrection_ —may not even be possible. And almost certainly not by me. The remains you see there are very likely little more than a sentimental—if slightly macabre—totem I should probably discard sooner rather than later.”

Geralt has heard similar ‘shoulds’ before. _He_ probably ‘should’ have stopped looking for Ciri any number of times. “But there’s a chance.”

Regis nods contemplatively. “There’s a chance,” he admits. “A previously unknown method of—well, the details aren’t important. That… doesn’t mean I have to pursue it.”

Geralt closes his eyes, and inhales deeply. Regis’s particular, peculiar earthy scent, heavy with notes of anise, sage, wormwood and cinnamon, curls in his nostrils, familiar and comforting.

He doesn’t want to feel regret about this evening every time he smells a similar scent for the rest of his life.

At the end of the day, he knows who Regis is, and what he’s willing to do to help his friends—those currently living as well as those departed.

Geralt blinks his eyes open again, regarding Regis. “You asked for trust—”

“—even though I had lied to you,” Regis cuts in, further excoriating his own behavior before Geralt can get a sentence in. “That was inexcusable, and I’m sorry.” 

“You’re not lying now,” Geralt says, trying to prevent the vampire from launching into another soliloquy. “And,” he cocks his head to the bottle where Detlaff’s tissue is resting, “it’s not exactly like you were hiding this from me. If this was your way of telling me—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “Next time, just... _tell_ me.”

Geralt sighs, and takes up Regis hands in his own again, looking down at their intertwined fingers. “I don’t understand how you feel about him. Not really. But I don’t need to. More importantly, I trust you. Whatever ends up happening… Whatever you decide to do… I trust you.”

“Thank you, Geralt,” Regis says quietly. He purses his lips, as if considering whether he should say anymore about the current subject, but mercifully he appears to think better of it.

Instead, he flicks his gaze back up to the witcher’s face, some of the heat from earlier returning to his stare. “Have I ruined our evening completely?” he asks, voice lilting up.

And that strikes a chord in Geralt. While all of tonight has been unknown territory to some degree, he and Regis _do_ have a rapport he can fall back on, and he particularly enjoys this part of it: Regis playing the sophisticated gentleman—refined, antiquated, and at arm’s length from the rest of the world—and Geralt taking the part of the vulgar, barbarous savage, when, in fact, they are both men with a certain amount of learning, both removed from society, and both of them killers, capable of acts of vicious savagery.

“Is that your polite way of asking if I still want to _fuck?_ ” Geralt asks, putting particular emphasis on the gutter speech. Regis doesn’t flinch, but Geralt thinks he sees the vampire’s smile grow infinitesimally wider.

Geralt considers pausing there, drawing the moment out, trying to make his partner nervous... but he’s fairly certain Regis can already see the answer shining in his yellow eyes.

“Yeah,” he continues breathily. “Yeah, I wanna fuck. Couple of rules, though,” he adds with a wry half-smile.

“And they are?”

Geralt moves in for another kiss, and this one is fierce, possessive—more than a little animal in nature. He slides a hand over the small of Regis’s back, yanking him in close as he shoves his tongue demandingly in Regis’s mouth.

The idea of Regis sleeping with Dettlaff galled Geralt at first, but now seems to be having just the right effect, setting his blood ablaze, drawing out his more bestial side. He doesn’t pull back when the kiss ends.

“I don’t want anyone else here for the rest of the night,” Geralt growls against Regis’s lips, “even as a memory. No sorceresses, no other _vampires.._. Just you and me.”

“A more than reasonable request,” replies Regis, his voice, too, slipping into a slightly lower register. It sounds a bit like when the bloodlust began to hit him as they approached the cage at Tesham Mutna, but this time the aching need in his tone sounds… pleasurable. “Indeed, one I should have adhered to sooner. And the other?”

His recollection of Regis’s time in the cage makes Geralt back down before making his second request known. “We’ll get into that later,” he demurs.

“Ah, a _quid pro quo_ I must agree to without knowledge of what it is,” Regis responds teasingly. “Very well: done. Entirely worth the risk, in my opinion. Well, my dear…” Regis presses another quick kiss to Geralt’s lips. “Bedroom, then?”

 _‘Finally’_ is what Geralt probably should say, by way of continuing their verbal sparring, but his curiosity, which Regis so often praises, gets the better of him. “You have a bedroom?”

Regis laughs. “You thought I retired nightly to a sarcophagus, perhaps? I suppose it _would_ be extremely peaceful.”

Geralt thinks of the time he faced the Striga—Foltest’s daughter ( _damn, that was a long time ago_ )—and how he waited for daybreak in one himself.

“It’s… secure, I’ll say that much.”

Regis cocks an eyebrow in surprise, and Geralt offers a shrug in return. “Hazard of the trade. Story for another time. But, no, I just… wasn’t sure what to expect of this place. Honestly thought you might just live in your study. Or your lab.”

“Not an unfair assessment,” Regis reasons. “But I like to think there’s a _bit_ more to me than that.”

Geralt gives him a feral grin.

“By all means, show me.”

* * *

It’s hard for Geralt to guess whether Regis’s bedroom had been, before the cemetery fell into disrepair, some sort of store room, a cul de sac that served some purpose for the living exclusively, untouched by the trappings of death, or whether the vampire had merely done an excellent job of clearing it of them.

(Even if he hadn’t, it’s not like Geralt would have objected: he has slept—and fucked—in far, far worse places.)

The room is cozy and relatively inviting, for all that it’s located inside an enormous crypt. It’s as sparse as the rest of Regis’s tidily packed up living quarters, empty save for a nightstand and a decent sized bed, still made up with pillows and blankets. It looks comfortable. Charming.

Or at least, that’s the impression Geralt gets, merely spying the room from the corner of his eye while backing Regis toward said bed in between long tongue-filled snogs.

His ear catching a distant howling sound, he looks back over his shoulder in the direction of the twisting catacombs beyond the room’s stone entryway, scowling.

Even when they are determined to lay their own ghosts to rest, other people’s just won’t leave them be.

Before Geralt can gesture, preparing to cast a longer-lasting variant of the Sign of Yrden, Regis hums, and steps back just enough to reach into his leather satchel. After a moment of digging around, he makes a pleasant little noise of triumph, and reveals two small vials.

Crossing to the entryway, he uncorks one, and pours out a light coloured fluid from it; it shimmers as it falls to the ground.

“That for the wraiths?”

“It is,” Regis confirms, moving back toward Geralt.

He tosses the second vial, still corked, onto the coverlet.

The bottle itself is clear, and so is the substance inside; Geralt can’t identify it by sight, but as the bottle lands on the bed, he observes that the liquid inside seems slightly more viscous than the previous concoction.

“And that?”

“That is _not_ for the wraiths,” Regis says, flirtatious.

It takes Geralt only a fraction of a second longer to catch Regis’s meaning.

Anticipation ripples through him, from his belly to the tip of his cock.

"You carry that around?” he asks, lifting his sword belt over his head. “Just in case?"

"Life rarely conforms to one's expectations,” Regis smiles, likewise removing his satchel and depositing it at the foot of the bed next to Geralt’s weapons. “I find it best to be prepared for any... state of affairs."

“Oh yeah?” Testing that assertion, Geralt darts forward, grabbing at the belt looped around Regis’s waist, to wrangle him closer, and maybe snake a hand beneath Regis’s tunic, to see if the vampire is as ready as he is.

But he’s slow—far too slow. He manages to snatch the belt, but that’s all he comes away with. The rest of Regis is gone in a flash, dematerialized into a dark wisp of smoke, darting across the room.

When he reforms into solid flesh, Regis is leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

"Not so fast, my dear." Regis admonishes him. "I want to see you properly."

Geralt huffs a laugh, narrowing his eyes at the vampire, but doesn't protest. At least Regis isn’t giving another damn speech.

"It's not going to be much of a show," Geralt warns, releasing his grip on the belt Regis left in his hand, letting it fall to the floor.

"Let me be the judge of that."

The witcher's fingers fly to the catches of his armor with the speed and ease of practice, letting it drop away piece by piece. He moves perfunctorily, with no overt attempt at seduction, but, even so, he can feel Regis' eyes on him, and it only makes him harder as he strips down to his shirt and trousers.

He returns Regis’s stare as he pulls the shirt free of his head, his scarred torso on full display.

Regis has seen Geralt shirtless before—he acted as physician for the members of Geralt's hansa, and he treated them all at one time or another, for illness and injury alike.

But he was ever the professional then, doing only what needed to be done and never more. He was impassive, clinical.

His expression is not clinical now.

The vampire's gaze traces over the planes of Geralt's chest, the heat in it palpable, as if Geralt is being bathed in liquid fire. Regis's pupils and even his irises, both midnight black in color, go even wider, the whites in danger of disappearing again altogether, and he smirks wolfishly. It would appear he very much likes what he sees.

"Geralt, I…" he breathes, words finally seeming to have escaped him. "You are… astonishingly beautiful."

"'Beautiful'? That’s the best you’ve got?" Geralt snarks, beginning to slide the waist of his trousers down, revealing the precise contours of his hip bones, the crown of a thatch of white hair appearing just above the fabric’s edge.

He pauses for just a moment, then pushes his breeches lower, sliding them over his ass and down his thighs in one smooth motion, allowing his cock to finally spring free of its leather and cloth restraint. He runs his mouth as he does so, using bravado to stave off the embarrassment of being watched so intently.

"Really? Don't have any words worth a few more crowns than that?"

Regis’s brows twitch slightly, like he can’t decide whether is he is more ruled by his annoyance at what he hears, or his lust at what he sees. Finally he trains his focus on Geralt’s cock, flush and pointing directly back at the vampire, as if leading the way to Geralt’s desire. Regis’s lips part slightly as he stares, seemingly involuntarily, his pink tongue darting out to wet them, and Geralt feels fire flash through him in response.

"C'mon, Regis,” He looks at the ground, stepping out of the trousers, completely naked at last. “Tell me I'm... 'resplendent', or..." he racks his brain, trying to think of Dandelion's most over-the-top poetic efforts, "'pulchritudinous'!"

He looks back up, to see, for half a heartbeat, Regis scowling at him, and then the vampire is gone again, replaced once more by a swirling grey cloud.

But before Geralt can respond to the transformation, the cloud rushes at him.

Coils of graphite-colored smoke curl about him, covering him, touching him everywhere at once. The haze encircling him is much cooler than the surrounding air, making Geralt gasp as it cascades over his chest, his nipples instantly forming firm little peaks. He closes his eyes, and lets himself be entirely enveloped by Regis, the mist somehow kissing him everywhere, from his face to the tops of his feet, all at once.

Suddenly the haze gathers itself up, moving with a purpose now, abandoning the listless exploring it’s done so far, flying with all due haste between Geralt’s legs, playing about his cock and balls, and dancing effortlessly over his buttocks, leaving Geralt shivering, drawing a choked breath from him unexpectedly. Like chilly, nimble fingers ghosting over him, but infinitely lighter and quicker, Regis swirls across the planes of Geralt's back and shoulders, coasting up the back of his neck, then finally gusts into his hair, twirling the long locks about mischievously.

The sensation is glorious and maddening at the same time: it’s a wholly new experience, and yet, the thought of Regis retracing all of paths he's just made on Geralt's skin with his hands—and his mouth—is so tantalizing that Geralt can barely stand not to scream.

Just as he's about to claw the air, to try to grab hold of something, _anything_ solid, he hears the unique noise he associates with the vampire regaining his human form—like air rushing out of a very small space very quickly—and opens his eyes.

There’s no figure standing before him, but just as Geralt spies something curious on the ground—a pile of clothing that looks suspiciously like Regis's—the cool mist is replaced by molten flesh merely an inch away from his own, radiating heat just behind his back... and something _very_ hot and firm brushing lightly against his ass.

Dexterous hands slide forward, gliding over his ribs, then his stomach, and Geralt’s hips buck reflexively, his cock throbbing. Regis’s fingers explore the taut surface of Geralt’s stomach, moving achingly slowly.

In an instant, the vampire yanks him closer, one arm winding tightly around the witcher’s midsection, while the other dives lower, his hand encircling and gripping Geralt’s shaft—gripping, but not tugging, not offering Geralt any friction, any release at all. The witcher bucks his hips again, harder this time, straining against Regis’s hand, seeking the pleasant kiss of flesh on flesh, but Regis denies him as much as possible, holding firm. Geralt groans, letting his head fall back.

Regis, not one to waste a perfect opportunity, presses his face intimately into the exposed flesh of Geralt’s neck, and inhales deeply. They are a picture of one of those vampire clichés Regis purports to despise so much, if perhaps even more obscene, and Geralt couldn’t care less. 

He can feel every inch of where Regis is touching him: Regis’s chest pressed to his back, Regis’s cock nestled in the cleft of his ass. But the vampire doesn’t even have the decency (or lack thereof) to grind himself against the Geralt there, either, the bastard. Regis is infuriatingly still.

"My _beautiful_ witcher," he hisses in Geralt’s ear, repeating his chosen compliment pointedly, "You _still_ don't know when to stop talking."

Teasing Geralt’s ear with his teeth, he slides his hand up the underside of Geralt’s cock, beginning to make tiny, gentle, _excruciatingly_ slow circles under the head with the pads of his forefingers, smearing it with the precum he finds there, wringing even more inhuman noises from the witcher’s throat.

“ _Monster_ ,” grits out Geralt, spending the last of his presence of mind on the retort; he’s rewarded with Regis’s soft chuckle in his ear.

Geralt attempts to thrust his hips up yet again, and this time the vampire lets him, and even deigns to help, sheathing Geralt’s cock in his palm and allowing Geralt to fuck up into it. The friction tears a guttural moan from Geralt, and he’s only a handful of thrusts in before he catches himself edging toward a climax and forces himself to slow down.

His witcher mutations aren’t (unfortunately) a complete panacea, and thus don’t affect his refractory period significantly. But they do provide a few helpful side effects, including both an awareness of how close he is to orgasm, and an ability to control it, perhaps rather moreso than other men. So as much as he can’t come repeatedly without at least _some_ rest, he can usually get hard and stay that way for as long as his partners need him to.

Except, apparently, with Regis: the vampire is unique as ever, and constantly catching him off guard.

Geralt closes his eyes and drives his focus away from the sensation, his mind temporarily shunted into the same place he visits during meditation. He is _not_ going to spurt off in Regis’s hand thirty seconds into their encounter like some idiot _boy_. Not when he hasn’t even gotten a damn _look_ at the man.

Despite Regis’s reluctance to answer his question before, Geralt feels _fairly_ confident he knows how Regis feels about power games.

Well, turnabout is fair play, isn’t it?

Geralt suddenly pushes Regis’s hand off of him completely, and reaches out toward the small bottle on the bed. “Here, just—give me the damn oil—”

It’s not much of a distraction, but it’s enough.

Regis takes the feint, and loosens his grip around Geralt’s midsection fractionally.

The witcher slides his foot back, hooking his ankle around Regis’s, and pulls forward.

Regis loses his balance for just a moment, and Geralt uses the space to spin around and face him. Barely pausing to look or think, sure the vampire will evaporate once more if he hesitates for even an instant, he grabs Regis by the waist and shoves him rather forcefully and unceremoniously onto the bed.

Stilling himself, the first thing the witcher absorbs is Regis’s face. If Regis isn’t genuinely surprised, he’s doing an exceptional job of faking it: he lays sprawled on the bed, looking astonished. His eyes are enormous, his brows have crawled halfway up his forehead, and his mouth hangs open wide enough that Geralt can see the tip of one fang.

And then, much to Geralt’s relief, he throws his head back in a long, loud peal of laughter.

Satisfied that he hasn't hurt either the vampire's physical body or his pride, Geralt lets his eyes run the length of Regis's form, seeing him entirely naked for the first time.

He's slim, limbs long and lean—wiry, might be the word. He's in better shape than most men of his age, Geralt notes—and has to stop himself there, because there _are_ no men of Regis' age. Not his true age. Even as long lived as witchers can be, not a lot of them celebrate multicentennials.

Abruptly, it strikes Geralt that Dettlaff was probably Regis's contemporary, and yet his physical appearance had been much younger. Dettlaff’s human form was that of a man of thirty-five, forty at the most. Geralt isn't sure if higher vampires can change how they manifest as human on a whim, but even if it did take some time and effort, Regis certainly could have done it during the regeneration process.

 _He chooses to look the way he does_ , Geralt realizes. Regis could likely be all youth and rippling muscle if he so desired.

But it's a very specific persona—this aging, oddly sweet, proper-but-approachable barber-surgeon with wispy greying hair and shining, kind eyes—that Regis has chosen to present himself as.

It endears Geralt to Regis even more the longer he ponders it.

Before his thoughts can turn any more maudlin, Geralt narrows his focus to specific parts of Regis's anatomy, drinking them in, enjoying each of them like the flavors in a particularly complex wine: his arms and chest, bearing just a hint of muscle, the near-flatness of his trim stomach, his slim, sinuous legs—and the eye-catching part standing at attention between them, flush and straining away from the lines of his torso.

If Regis _is_ capable of instantaneous metamorphosis, Geralt is awfully glad he hasn't tried to change himself just now. He wants Regis exactly as he is.

"Did you honestly—just—?" Regis interrupts himself with more laughter. He shakes his head in disbelief, adjusting his position on the bed, shifting himself up toward the pillows and leaning back on his elbows, his posture insouciant, his expression lightly mocking. "How terribly masculine and violent of you. Well done, Geralt."

"I can do better than that," Geralt promises in sultry bass tones, stalking toward him.

Kneeling at the edge of the mattress, Geralt scoops the bottle of oil Regis tossed onto the bed in his left hand, gripping it in his fist as he crawls slowly forward on all fours. More panther than wolf, he prowls up to and then over top of Regis's reclining figure.

The vampire smiles up at him. "I'm counting on it."

Geralt lowers himself down for a kiss, slow and smooth, closing the distance between them. They are joined together all at once, down the length of their bodies, every sensation competing with the other for Geralt’s attention: the brush of his nipples against Regis’s chest, Regis’s lips yielding to his own, seeking, demanding—and the bright, hot ripple of need that shoots through him when their cocks brush.

Geralt carefully aligns his shaft alongside Regis’s. He kisses the vampire even deeper as he gently rocks his hips forward, brushing their cocks together, feeling velvety skin slide over hardened muscle. He repeats the motion, Regis arcing up against the bed, humming into his mouth. Geralt smiles into the kiss.

Continuing his tiny thrusts, he holds himself aloft with his right arm. Using his left, he deposits the oil bottle on the nightstand, then reaches down to retrieve Regis’s hand from where it rests on the bed beside him.

Drawing it to his mouth, he’s about to place a kiss on the heel of Regis’s palm, when he catches the vampire’s eyes, so completely black and wide and shiny that Geralt can see his own reflection in them. Regis’s body tenses in anticipation.

“Regis?” he asks, his lips brush against the inside of the vampire’s wrist as he says it.

Without warning, Regis releases a stuttering cry of absolute, unguarded pleasure.

Geralt stills, but doesn’t drop Regis’s hand, just waits for the vampire to return to him, to consciousness.

“Vestigial patagium,” he gasps, blinking his eyes back open.

Geralt thinks that’s meant to be some kind of an explanation. He’s going to need more than that to go on.

“...sorry?”

Regis explains between deep inhalations, steadying himself. “When we… vampires… transform… A bat’s wings are… made up of a—”

He breaks off, and Geralt can see the frantic whirling of his mind as he tries to distill a scientific lecture into a desperate, concise thought.

“It’s _very sensitive_ ,” he says finally, a low whisper, imbuing the last two words with an urgency that lights up Geralt’s mind with possibilities.

Geralt looks at Regis’s hand anew; it’s nothing even his witcher’s eyes would have noticed unprompted, but he can see it now: the skin on Regis’s palms, wrists, even between his fingers is just slightly different—thinner, more delicate, with veins and capillaries clearly more exposed—than on the rest of his body. Geralt had even felt it moments before, but had chalked it up to the condition of Regis’s hands after working with chemicals in his lab: a sign of his trade, the way the calloused roughness of Geralt’s hands mark him as a swordsman.

But seeing it now, it’s clearly something altogether different. Regis’s choice of attire—leather gloves paired with long-sleeved tunics, even in the warmth of a Toussaint summer—seems, in this new light, much more justified.

Geralt tracks the line of distinctive skin with his eyes down Regis’s arm; it swoops through his underarm and curves down his sides, over his ribs, ending down just past his hips.

He wants to learn every curve of it with his mouth; he practically salivates at the idea.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He hesitates one last time. “Do you—not want me to—?” he asks, using every ounce of his restraint. As much as he loves to play the brute, he fancies that he is not actually one himself.

“ _Please_ ,” begs Regis. “Yes. You merely surprised me— _again_. And at the same time, you were—” he twists his pelvis up, illustratively. “But it’s been too long since—” He stops himself from babbling, apparently not ready to confess what had not happened in too long. “ _Yes_ ,” he finishes, his voice strained with yearning.

That last syllable is all the encouragement Geralt needs. He draws Regis’s wrist back to his face, first nuzzling it with his nose, drawing in a deep breath, taking in the scent of him—Regis’s _real_ scent, underneath the herbal perfume he uses to disguise his true nature—and exhales, letting his breath tickle the nerve endings at the vampire’s pulse point.

Geralt likes the scent, he thinks, letting his lower lip drag across the sensitive tissue, causing Regis to shudder beneath him. Regis smells like other higher vampires Geralt has come in contact with—smelling the way blood tastes, a coppery tang that hints at death.

But underneath, there’s something fresher, something belonging uniquely to Regis: the scent of rainwashed earth. There’s a word for it that Geralt can’t recall at the moment. Regis would know, he thinks—if Regis could think at all right now. He smiles into Regis’s hand before setting more deliberately to work.

He licks a path up the vampire’s palm, then sucks each finger into his mouth, working his tongue methodically over the membranous skin in between as well, before moving on to Regis’s inner arm. Geralt feels a sticky spot on his lower abdomen, a smear of pre-cum from Regis’s cock as he writhes and pants beneath him.

The witcher halts the progress of his eager mouth to reach down between them, wrapping his big hand around both their cocks, pulling at them together. A fractured sound issues from Regis’s throat and he and arcs up from the mattress in pleasure.

Regis’s chest heaves as he relaxes back against the bed, locking eyes with his lover. His voice is ragged when he speaks.

“Am I your first—”

“—man?” Geralt cuts in, Regis’s talent for interruption apparently having rubbed off on him. “No,” he says, tugging at both their shafts again, wondering if he’s doing something wrong that would prompt the question. Maybe he should have applied the oil already…

“Can’t claim a _lot_ of experience in that area,” he admits. “But some.”

Regis places his hands on Geralt’s chest as Geralt works his cock, and his expression crosses into bliss for a moment—which makes sense given Regis’s particular sensitivity, and the textured surface of Geralt’s myriad scars under his hands.

“I was going to say non-human,” clarifies Regis, his obsidian eyes glistening as he looks up inquisitively.

“Oh.” Geralt huffs a laugh, stopping his hand. “No. There was a…”

He dips his head down to kiss the vampire’s collarbone as he contemplates the confession; he’s never actually admitted this out loud to anyone before.

“...a golden dragon. They have human forms,” he explains quickly. “I didn’t actually know that he was… I didn’t know at the time.”

Regis raises his head up sharply to peer at the witcher. “Wait. Was this the golden dragon from the story? The one that Dandelion—”

Geralt moves lower over the vampire’s frame and shuts him up by nibbling at the delicate flesh over his intercostals; Regis’s words die on a gasp.

“No one else,” Geralt reminds him, growling into Regis’s side. “No dragons, and certainly no godsdamned _poets_.” 

“You can’t simply leave it at that,” Regis protests mulishly, letting his head fall back to the pillow.

Geralt narrows his eyes, plotting, then licks a long line up the strip of sensitive skin of Regis’s side, from hip to underarm.

Their faces once more parallel, Geralt lifts himself away from the vampire’s prone form, placing inches of air between them.

“If you must know,” the witcher taunts, “he didn’t _talk_ as much as you. And he didn’t evaporate into smoke as much, either. And he had an _enormous_ —”

There’s a rush of movement, and in the span of a heartbeat, Geralt finds himself on his back with Regis glaring down at him, their positions completely reversed.

In fact, Regis is kneeling in such a way that his shins are locked over Geralt’s thighs. His hands have caught Geralt’s, fingers interlaced, and he grips into pillows below with his claw-like nails.

Geralt pushes up against Regis with all his strength, struggling in earnest to get free—he already senses the futility in it, and does it anyway. His years of fight training are nearly impossible to ignore, but more importantly, he thinks Regis might enjoy the friction against his palms.

Geralt’s efforts don’t budge his assailant in the slightest: he’s pinned, spread like an insect on a card, about to be dissected, or mounted for display.

His witcher’s brain whispers to him that if Regis wanted him dead now, he wouldn't stand a chance.

 _Merciful Melitele,_ does that turn him on. As if he’s not painfully hard already.

There’s a question hanging in his mind, one he wanted to ask Regis before. The second part of their agreement he couldn’t bring himself to say aloud.

He swallows, licking his lips.

He still can’t. It’s too much. Not now.

Geralt looks up at Regis as coolly as he can manage, quelling the fear-fuelled lust inside him. He simply waits, his expression seeming to beg the question, _are you quite done now?_

“You were saying?” Regis prompts lightly, as though he himself hadn’t been the cause of the interruption.

“—ego,” Geralt finishes describing the dragon. “Thought pretty highly of himself.”

Regis chuckles.

“I take it back,” he admits, his words of surrender in sharp juxtaposition to his absolute physical power over Geralt. “Forgive me. You had the right of it. Just you and me,” he reaffirms, pressing his face into Geralt’s neck and inhaling deeply. 

“You see, my dear,” he explains, his voice a low rumble. “Your relevant experience dwarfs mine— _you_ are the first human I’ve ever been with. So please pardon any hesitation on my part—and any missteps I might be making.”

Is _that_ the reason for all the games and theatrics? Nerves? That can’t be it. Not all of it, anyway. Regis is a surgeon, for gods’ sake: he almost certainly knows human anatomy better than Geralt does.

“Full marks for building suspense,” Geralt tells him, trying—not necessarily successfully—to keep a measure of impatience from seeping into his tone. “Still waiting for the follow-through…”

“I shall endeavor to improve, then,” Regis resolves.

And with no further fanfare, he releases Geralt from his grip, moves cat-like down the bed, kneels between Geralt’s legs, and takes nearly the whole of Geralt’s cock in his mouth.

The witcher moans, a breathy, broken noise wrung from him before he can stop himself, before he can remember that he doesn’t _have_ to stop himself.

A gorgeous tension sears through him; he’s all feeling—he half wants to close his eyes and simply let it wash over him, but he can’t seem to tear his gaze away from Regis, staring as the vampire works him with his throat. Slowly, Regis pulls back, stopping at the head, lavishing attention there, licking closed-mouthed at the slit. He finally pulls all the way off, feathering his lips over the spot his tongue had just been.

 _“Fuck,”_ Geralt grunts.

Regis grins, making no effort to hide the gleaming tips of his scalpel-sharp incisors, gleeful and threatening at once. He settles himself more comfortably between Geralt’s legs, and grasps the witcher's hips as he begins to take Geralt in his mouth again.

His claws lightly prick Geralt’s skin as he does so. It’s momentary and unintentional, that much is clear, but something uncoils in the witcher’s belly at the contact. _Teeth_ , it demands. _Claws._ Something to balance the gentleness and the arm’s length teasing. _Violence_. He wants it, needs it—now.

Geralt reaches down and rests Regis’s hands away from his hip bones, pulling them toward his nipples. He sets the curled tips of Regis’s claws on his chest.

“Hurt me,” he says.

They lock eyes—Regis pauses momentarily, silently seeking reassurance.

“Do it,” Geralt barks, pressing the claws decisively into his flesh.

For half an instant, he thinks he sees Regis falter—an expression the witcher can’t name in reflected his face.

But then the vampire stretches his gorgeous lips around Geralt’s cock and takes him in again; at the same moment, ten flexed talons are digging into him, being raked down his stomach, leaving angry red marks in their wake, and all conscious thought is _gone_.

“Haaaaaaahhhh.” He hangs on the syllable and bridges up from the bed, exposing his lower back. Wasting no time, Regis lets his hands continue their vicious path, arcing around Geralt’s waist to his back, scratching at either side of the base of Geralt’s spine, then savagely grabbing his ass, each cheek’s flesh caught in a claw-like grip.

Geralt shuts his eyes and just gives into it, all of it, descending into the sweet, hot wetness of it, the pain and pleasure, unintelligible sounds flowing freely from him now as he floats at the edge of orgasm. Gods, it’s good. It’s been so long since he’s felt this good—fuck, maybe never—

The rhythm of Regis’s mouth on Geralt’s cock grows steadier, quicker; proving himself a quick study, he angles the witcher into his mouth just so, with the perfect amount of pressure, teasing the underside of Geralt’s shaft with his tongue in every way Geralt likes best.

Geralt feels Regis’s claws relinquish their grip, hands following the easy curve of Geralt’s ass. Knuckles, fingertips tenderly stroke and knead him just behind his balls. Regis’s other hand clasps the base of his cock and pulls, hands and mouth working in tandem, tempo building, pulling Geralt taut as an overdrawn bowstring, ready to snap.

He’s _so_ close; he could let go now, spill himself into Regis’s mouth, let himself be rocked by the release, falling headfirst into it—

—but his pulse… his pulse pounds in his ears, blood pumping in time with every thrust of his cock; he can only imagine what it sounds like for Regis, what it _feels_ like under his tongue.

_Maybe...maybe Regis would want..._

Gods, he needs to come. But...he can’t yet. And he can’t ask what he wants to ask, either.

Face twisting in exquisite agony, Geralt summons a will he didn’t know he had and reaches down, pushing against Regis’s shoulder, halting the vampire, who reluctantly pulls away.

At first Geralt expects confusion, or perhaps concern, from Regis. But neither of them says a word; the sound of their harsh panting is all that resounds in the room.

“Geralt.”

Regis’s voice is heavy with sorrow when he says the witcher’s name. _Much_ heavier than it should be.

Which sends a cold spike of dread through Geralt.

Because he’d bet anything the vampire knows exactly what he’s thinking.

“I’m not going to drink you. Not after…” he shakes his head. “Not tonight.”

And just like that, Regis rips the last of Geralt’s secrets away. 

Something goes reflexively tight in Geralt’s chest; he tries not to let it show on his face. “Didn’t ask you to.”

“And I’m grateful.” Regis opens his mouth and shuts it again; he looks like a rabbit in a trap, caught and contemplating what to do next.

“I… I _want_ to,” he admits, a painful offering. “Desperately. You must know that. You smell…” he inhales luxuriantly, like he’s savoring the bouquet of a fine wine and not the musky, salt-sweat scent of Geralt’s crotch. Seemingly not of his volition, Regis releases an animalistic purr.

“I _want_ to,” he repeats, punctuating the forced end of that thought, the regret in his words palpable. “And I think _you_ want me to.”

It’s true. Gods, is it true. Geralt has been barely able to steer his thoughts from it all night.

The idea of the act itself excites him—Regis tearing into him, breaking the skin and drawing from him. Regis’s pretty mouth painted dark crimson, wet and sweet as he drinks. Regis penetrating him in a way that can’t be anything but painful. An act driven by ancient instinct. The monster hunter brought low by his supposed prey.

But more than that, Geralt realizes—allows himself to realize—that he _really_ wants what comes afterward.

He wants to be _marked_. Of all the scars he’ll carry with him on his person until the end of his days, he wants one that he chose for himself. One that he asked for, and was graciously given as a gift.

Months, years from now, whether tucked away at Corvo Bianco or sleeping rough near some unknown forest’s edge in between contracts, he wants to run his finger over the ragged pink tissue left behind by the bite, and remember that someone cared for him enough to do such a thing. In spite of the traditions of their ancestors, in spite of the personal cost to both of them, in spite of the danger, he would have that scar: a permanent reminder that his friend and one-time lover broke his own faith, just a little, and adorned Geralt with the pain he desired, merely because Geralt asked it of him.

It’s selfish and shitty and, frankly, _wrong_ , as desires go, to dream that Regis would sacrifice so much for Geralt’s grotesque whim.

That’s why he couldn’t bring himself to ask it of his friend. And he won’t, now.

Geralt just stares back silently, neither confirming or denying the vampire’s assertion.

“I _can’t_ ,” Regis says finally.

“It’s nothing,” Geralt responds gruffly. Regis has _nothing_ to apologize for. He shouldn’t feel badly because of Geralt’s twisted fantasy, ill-conceived and utterly out of line.

“I don’t _want_ it to be nothing,” Regis raises his head and shoots back with unexpected fierceness. He sighs, his scowl disappearing as fast as it came on. “I _want_ to please you, Geralt, in every way I can. I’ll do everything else in my power. Anything else you might ask of me.”

Regis waits for Geralt, hanging on the witcher’s reply like his life depends on it.

And in the stillness that falls, it dawns on Geralt with perfect clarity.

Somewhere along the way, this night has become something more than the two of them trading barbs, teasing each other into a frenzy and ending it all with a quick lay.

The games, the repartee, the shared timidity—all of it has been for a reason. All of it has merely been an attempt to delay their arrival at this moment. The moment where it has become undeniable that this could _mean_ something.

(How can something so sudden have been such a long time coming?)

 _This_ , Geralt thinks. _This is the part that’s dangerous._

Maybe that’s why he chooses to let his guard down entirely.

Before he can lose his nerve, he reaches out to retrieve the oil bottle on the nightstand. Canting his hips up in one smooth undulation, he lets his legs fall wide open as he shows the bottle to Regis.

He can’t breathe. He must look like a damned Novigrad whore, presenting himself like this, but the meaning _has_ to be clear, doesn’t it?

“... _Anything_ else?” he asks, mouthing the words, struggling to get any air behind them.

Regis’s mouth falls slightly open, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “You... want me to…?”

 _I want to come with you inside me_ , Geralt thinks, but he can’t get the words out. He feels like a godsdamn fool.

(Regis would never read his thoughts without his permission like Yen did—damn the man. It’d be useful now.)

“C’mon, Regis,” Geralt husks out. “Are you gonna make me beg?”

Hearing his name seems to snap Regis out of his incredulousness.

“Yes, _sorry_ —yes,” he stammers. “Of course—I mean—yes, I’d love to, and _no_ , you don’t have to beg.” He smiles softly, taking the bottle from Geralt and uncorking it. “Unless you _want_ to.”

Geralt tries to laugh, but it comes out a rasp. “Not tonight,” he repeats the vampire’s words back to him.

He reaches down between his legs to start to work himself open. True, he’s never done this bit himself before, but it has to be a matter of feeling. He’ll know when he’s ready, he supposes.

Regis stops him, however, gently pushing Geralt’s hand back, placing one of his own tenderly on the witcher’s belly—and Geralt is surprised to see that his claws are entirely gone now, replaced with blunt human nails.

“Please,” Regis entreats him, “let me.”

Geralt sighs and relaxes, letting his head fall back against the pillows—he can be a touch masochistic in his desires at times, but even _he_ has limits.

The scent of the oil is mild and pleasant—Geralt thinks he smells a note of sandalwood as he hears Regis rubbing his palms together and recorking the bottle.

There’s a soft, wet smear down the seam of his balls, as Regis toys with the skin there, teasing him, while the fingers of his other hand wander farther afield, hovering over his hole.

“ _Breathe_ ,” the vampire coaxes him. Geralt draws a breath on command; he’d needed the reminder.

Slowly, carefully, Regis works a finger inside of him, thrusting gently in and out, and Geralt tries not to squirm. It’s uncomfortable and wonderful at the same time and he doesn’t even attempt to reconcile the two feelings.

Another finger joins the first, and as the vampire starts to spread him, Geralt hears Regis whispering something in a language he can’t understand. There are a few words that sound similar to the Elder Speech— _my, mine_ , something possessive—but the tone and the intent is plain enough. As he opens the witcher, Regis lets amorous little turns of phrase fall from his lips. Geralt isn’t sure if they translate as poetry or dirty talk, but he finds himself charmed by it either way.

“Enjoying yourself?” he teases lightly, glancing down.

Regis slides his free hand to the join of Geralt’s left thigh, massaging him there softly, but never taking his eyes away from his work, fixated on Geralt with all the concentration he might normally devote to a particularly tricky ancient text.

“ _Immensely_.” There’s near giddy lilt in his voice. “Are you?”

He slides an oiled palm over the witcher’s cock once and nods invitingly. Geralt takes the hint, massaging himself with long, slow pulls, just as Regis stretches him even wider. Geralt tries not to pull a face at the burn of it.

A conciliatory—and impressively dextrous—gesture, Regis leans in and mouths Geralt’s balls, lapping at them teasingly, never stopping in his primary endeavor: he slips a third finger inside and flexes them all apart.

“Hnnnnh.” Geralt tries not to tense up, wondering how much longer it will take. He was much less sober the last time this happened; the mandrake moonshine from earlier this evening has long since worn off, seeming like a distant memory.

But an unexpected emptiness invades him as Regis’s hand withdraws from him, and he finds himself desperately wanting to be filled again.

Regis places a kiss on the thatch of white hair at the base of Geralt’s cock before pulling himself up beside the reclining witcher, his face eager, lit up with an expression that, if Geralt dares to name it, might make his own heart burst.

“I want—” Geralt starts.

“I know,” Regis tells him, smiling.

Wordlessly, Geralt twists to lay on his side, and Regis curls up neatly behind him, pressing his lips against Geralt’s scapula. Warmth pours into Geralt where the lines of their lean forms meet. He bends and parts his knees, tucking them up slightly, trying to give Regis the best access he possibly can.

Regis doesn’t tarry, doesn’t tease, just sets about applying more oil to his own cock, then positions himself at Geralt’s entrance. The pressure sends a frisson of anticipation through Geralt; his topmost hand twitches, grasping for… he’s not sure what. He stills it, clasping his own thigh, mentally cursing himself for being as jumpy as a blushing virgin.

A steadying hand curls reassuringly around his bicep, however; Regis never fails to notice even his most minute reactions. Geralt takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

Speaking another indecipherable endearment into Geralt’s muscled shoulder, Regis pushes into him.

Geralt cuts off a hiss as the vampire breaches him; Regis is probably little more than an inch or so inside him and it’s already nearly too much… _Fuck_. It’s good and painful and satisfying and not enough, all at once; he suddenly feels exposed, defenseless: the tattered, weary heart of him laid bare. Gods, he can’t do this.

He should push himself back, drive himself back down on Regis’s cock, get it over with and damn the pain—he can endure a bit more ribbing from Regis about his aggressive tendencies.

He should make a rough joke, say something crass to steal the sting away from the overwhelming vulnerability of the moment.

But ultimately he does neither. Regis moves ever so slowly, continuing to enter him with a tenderness that borders on reverence, and Geralt simply... lets him. It takes everything he has to do it, but he merely breathes in time to the vampire’s advances, moving only to reach back with one hand, caressing Regis’s jaw. Regis tucks his head down and nuzzles the back of Geralt’s neck as he drives the rest of the way home.

A sound Geralt can’t fully comprehend comes skittering out of his throat. Regis, fully seated within him, grips him tightly across the chest and moans.

He can feel Regis’s heartbeat, slower, stronger, more resonant than a human’s, both pounding against his back and throbbing within him. He can feel how tight he’s wrapped around the base of Regis’s cock. He can feel _everything_.

Then Regis pulls back and thrusts slowly back in again; as cautious and measured as the movement is, pleasure slams into Geralt, dealing a delicious backhand to his heightened senses, sending him reeling, and he realizes he hadn’t felt anything yet.

Keeping the cadence easy and even, the vampire moves within him, slick and steady and deep; Geralt’s bedside hand claws into the sheets while the other strains further back, fisting into Regis’s hair. His body curls backward, urging Regis on, staccato cries drawn out of him on the culmination of every stroke; they would be pleading, keening sounds from anyone else, but the depth of Geralt’s sand-rough voice makes him sound like exactly what he is: an animal, hungry for more.

It’s too much, it’s not enough, it’s _terrifying_ in its intimacy and he doesn’t want it to stop. He’s been fucked before, but that was nothing like this: Regis is inside him, filling the hollow places in him, and he’s so grateful he’s not facing Regis; he can’t imagine what his face would look like, reflected in the depths of the vampire’s lightless eyes.

“Regis,” Geralt moans, releasing his grip on the vampire’s head, grasping futilely at the pillow in front of him instead, and gods, he’s an absolute twat, calling out Regis’s name like that, he sounds like a _fool_ —

But Regis seems to take it as encouragement; his hips quicken their pace, while claws bite into Geralt’s flank and hip simultaneously. Geralt feels a sharp scrape of teeth against his neck—the prelude… to a bite?

— _shit_ —did Regis lose control somehow?—Geralt can’t let him do this—even if it would feel amazing—fuck, he should have paid better attention—

“ _Regis—_ ” Geralt repeats, trying sound calmer than he is, hoping his voice is enough to bring Regis back to consciousness. “You don’t have to—”

Regis’s voice is breathy in his ear, but he sounds entirely coherent. “Relax. Said... I wouldn’t drink you,” he pants. “Didn’t say... anything about not _biting_ you.”

Fangs graze him again, then, and he can tell now they’re _just_ dull enough not to break the skin.

Regis thrusts into him again; sliding his hand around Geralt’s cock, he whispers, “Would you like to come for me now, my darling?”

Teeth sink into him, then, pressing down into muscle and nerve endings, Regis separated from being inside him another way only by a thin veneer of flesh. Geralt arches back onto Regis’s cock, then rocks forward, fucking up into his hand, stars bursting behind his eyes. He repeats the motion once, and then again, and he’s gone, coming on a broken moan, being drained and filled at once. He comes and comes, spilling onto himself and the sheets and the vampire’s hand, feeling like he’ll never stop. Distantly, he hears Regis cry out as Geralt bears down on him.

Gasping, floating back down to himself, Geralt returns fully to the present as he feels Regis tuck his own knees up higher, snapping his hips hard and fast now, fucking Geralt in earnest.

Somehow managing to find a single strand of clarity through the haze of pleasure, Geralt pulls Regis’s soiled hand up to his mouth, and licks a wide stripe through his own seed, cleaning the oversensitive flesh of Regis’s palm as he tries to make himself even tighter.

Regis comes inside him, stifling a shout by biting down into the meat of Geralt’s shoulder one more time, sucking Geralt’s flesh into his mouth ravenously.

An echo reverberating in his mind, Geralt hears Regis’s words from earlier in the evening—albeit with a slightly new meaning—and smiles to himself:

_...Firm, defined beginning, then develops gently, rising to a startling finish. Don't you think?_

* * *

They lay there for a long moment, entangled, catching their breath in syncopated rhythm.

Regis places another kiss in the nape of the witcher’s neck, and gently, reluctantly, begins to withdraw from him, huffing a little sigh as he does so.

Geralt grunts softly as he feels Regis’s cum dribble onto his ass and thighs; on this side of delight, wrapped in contentment, the familiarity between them feels… easier, somehow: less dangerous than before. He’s rather enjoying it, actually.

A tiny voice in his mind wonders if that will still be so come morning, but Geralt silences the observation, telling it without hesitation to fuck right off, and twists backward, seeking the reassurance of Regis’s lips.

Curling his hand around Geralt’s jaw, Regis hums into Geralt’s mouth, favoring him with velvety, indolent kisses. If Geralt’s tongue weren’t otherwise occupied, adoring confessions might begin rolling off of it, and for the moment, at least, Geralt wouldn’t mind that in the slightest.

Regis draws his lips away, a tiny smile lingering on them; the whites of his eyes are returning, just at the edges, but they still shine back at Geralt with something like joy, and Geralt can’t help but return the expression.

Eventually, Regis sits up entirely and makes his way toward the end of the bed. Sounds of him rustling through his bag follow, and Geralt rolls to his opposite side, to face Regis, who returns holding scraps of white gauzy fabric torn at the edges. Geralt realizes what he’s being offered are actually linen medical bandages from Regis’s supply kit.

“All that I have at hand. I’m afraid you’re not getting the best of my hospitality,” he apologizes with a regretful smile, offering a few strips to Geralt, then using his to tenderly daub at Geralt’s backside.

Geralt shrugs and wipes at his stomach, as well as the sheets. “Felt pretty welcoming to me.” Regis chuckles.

The half-light of the lamp, glowing on the night stand behind Regis creates a halo around his lean frame, and Geralt props himself up on an elbow, watching his lover fondly as he disposes of the soiled cloth and settles back down beside him.

“Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy.” Geralt whispers, imbuing each of the vampire’s names with a quiet affection.

Fluffing his pillows before nestling his head against them, looking at Geralt levelly, not missing a beat, Regis responds in kind—rather _too_ much in kind.

“Geralt Roger Eric du Haut-Bellegarde,” he says, no small amount of amusement in his voice.

Geralt makes a tiny strangled sound, blinking... and then laughs. Laughs and laughs, eyes shut, his belly going taut from the strain of it.

The witcher places a hand on the back of Regis’s forearm, comfortingly, trying not to overstimulate him without warning. “I’d kind of hoped you’d forgotten that,” he admits, still snickering. 

“There’s little from that time that I _don’t_ remember.”

Geralt knows exactly what Regis means. He squeezes the vampire’s wrist softly.

Regis’s eyes go wider, and he stills suddenly.

“Do you feel that?” He doesn’t look… alarmed, exactly, but certainly surprised.

“What?”

“That… can’t be.” Regis casts his eyes down, already deep in thought. “Not this soon.”

Geralt furrows his brow at being left out, especially if this is cause for concern.

“What is it?”

“Your heartbeat.”

Regis draws Geralt’s hand up, pressing Geralt’s pulse point against his closed lips silently, unmoving.

Geralt freezes as well, pouring all his focus into the sensation of the blood coursing through his veins, thrumming against the vampire’s mouth, and it’s now apparent what Regis means: Geralt’s pulse has not only calmed, but decreased to a disconcertingly slow pace.

“It’s… trying to match mine,” Regis explains as confusion crosses Geralt’s face.

Regis guides Geralt’s fingertips under his chin, setting them atop his jugular.

If Geralt’s witcher mutations mean his heartbeat is somewhat slower than the average human’s, then Regis’s vampire nature makes his move at an absolute crawl, only ruffling Geralt’s fingertips once every several seconds now that he’s no longer aroused—no wonder people believed them to be undead creatures.

“Mine might even speed up, given enough time,” Regis tells him, vocal cords vibrating under Geralt’s fingers. “They would likely… meet in the middle, so to speak.”

Geralt doesn’t quite know what it all means. He has some guesses, but none he feels confident voicing. He lets his hand drift back to rest on the pillow. “Is that… unusual?”

“Not for vampires, no. Pulses synchronizing… It happens in the case of a lasting kinship, or…”

Geralt senses there’s a word Regis is specifically avoiding; he can’t tell if that’s meant for Regis’s benefit or his own.

“...strong affection,” Regis concludes. “There’s even a phrase for it: _cor meum cantat cum corde tuo,_ ” he recites, mouth moving with pretty precision, speaking in the same language he used before—the language of higher vampires, Geralt assumes.

“The literal translation is… somewhat more fanciful, and less scientific,” Regis continues, “but nonetheless, it refers to this phenomenon. I didn’t know it could happen so quickly, though,” he adds, quietly. “Or with a human.”

“Well, a witcher,” Geralt corrects, unable, as ever, to relinquish his otherness, his inability to truly fit in anywhere.

“Still,” Regis protests, thoughtful. “I was not, I think, foisting empty flattery on you the other day, when I said I saw some evidence of vampire traits in you. I daresay this only supports that theory.”

“Perhaps,” Geralt tells him, not quite conceding the point.

It’s been merely hours, but it feels like half a lifetime ago that Geralt suggested how much they have in common, up in the tomb’s main stairwell, and Regis tried to brush it off, suggesting that the witcher had more in common with an enchantress; now Regis is the one underscoring their similarities, while Geralt fixates on their differences.

It was true before and remains so: a witcher _does_ have more in common with a sorceress—both castes are made up of humans reworked at a molecular level into something else entirely, both having made sacrifices along the way to become something more.

But commonality is not compatibility, Geralt reflects now, and in the afterglow of their lovemaking, he can’t seem to shake the idea that what is suddenly so obviously _right_ about him and Regis is their contrasts.

Geralt’s century-long stay on the planet, indescribably protracted and wearisome to almost any other creature, is dwarfed by Regis’s near half a millenium of existence. Regis’s power makes Geralt seem almost weak in comparison, and his strangeness makes Geralt seem practically normal. Geralt could go on, holding the thought up to the light and letting it refract any number of ways, but the conclusion is the same: Regis’s outward inhumanity transforms Geralt, makes him feel more human than he ever has before.

And that is nothing compared to the warmth, the kindness with which Regis treats him, for that does something far more.

If Geralt thought sleeping with Regis would cure him of a desire to be near the vampire, or a need to do it again, he sees now what a flawed idea that was.

Regis strokes Geralt’s hair, carding his fingers through the strands, loosening a few from the leather lace Geralt has tied them back with.

“I like you like this,” he whispers, voice just a touch tremulous.

“Like what?” Geralt smiles at him.

Regis tilts his head fractionally against the pillow, thinking, hesitating.

“Smiling. Peaceful of heart.” He bites his lip. “ _Mine_ ,” he says finally, following it up with a sharp inhalation, as if he wished he could draw the word back in, too.

Geralt recalls their conversation earlier in the graveyard, and what he thought to himself at the time:

_Fuck. Careful._

But Regis hasn’t stopped smiling at him since they lay down next to one another.

He interrupts the thought, and tweaks it slightly before repeating it to himself:

_Fuck careful._

“If…” Geralt’s voice is hoarse when he speaks. “If you can’t stay with me at Corvo Bianco, I could… come with you.”

Regis’s smile falters just a bit. “To Nilfgaard?”

“If you’re still set on that idea, yes.”

Regis purses his lips. “Why do I feel that Cirilla wouldn’t be terribly fond you settling there, in the heart of Emhyr’s homeland?”

It’s... a fair point, if drawn from seemingly out of nowhere. Ciri probably has no intent to head further south than Toussaint for witcher contracts, lest her father discover that rumors of her death had been somewhat exaggerated.

Geralt tries not to consider that Regis is attempting to poke holes in Geralt’s plan.

“We could wander,” Geralt suggests. “The empire _is_ enormous. A witcher and a barber-surgeon could likely do well for themselves on the road. If one’s services aren’t needed, surely the other’s would be. It wouldn’t exactly be the _hansa_ ,” Geralt tells him, pleased that his voice only wavers a little when he says it, “but nonetheless—”

“The _hansa_ —” Regis repeats, and there’s a sorrowful note in the word to match Geralt’s when he says it. “Oh, I do miss them. I thought of you all often, during my recovery.”

Geralt feels a bit of a fool for bringing them up—after the events of this week, Regis doesn’t need further reminders of how many friends he’s lost.

But Regis did say the night was a wake of sorts. Even though their companions are long gone, neither he, nor, he suspects, Regis, really got a chance to mourn them, and certainly not the both of them together. Geralt wishes they had a bit more of that moonshine just now.

“Milva,” Geralt intones, half a prayer. “Angoulême... Even bloody Cahir. _Hey_.” The witcher’s countenance brightens at that, inspiration striking him. “We could go all the way down to Vicovaro.” He smirks. “It’s, you know, not _technically_ Nilfgaard—”

But Regis again fails to acknowledge Geralt’s suggestion of a shared destination—why is he resisting?

“At least Dandelion—or should I say, Master Julian—is still among the living,” Regis says, casually shifting topics.

“Mister Weasel himself,” Geralt manages to stop his eyes from rolling. “I don’t mean to alarm you, Regis, but… he may actually have settled down.”

The vampire seems to turn a shade paler, if that’s possible. “Heresy!” he exclaims in ersatz shock. “Falsehoods! Geralt of Rivia, are you lying to me in my own bed?”

Geralt shakes his head. “She’s _perfect_ for him. A fellow performer. She’s... had a bit of a rough year.”

The last Geralt heard, Priscilla was doing well, though it remained to be seen if she would sing again. Dandelion’s affections had not gone astray during the entirety of her recovery, however, and if _that_ particular miracle was possible, well, perhaps a second one would be less difficult to come by than previously thought.

“It would be good to see them both.” Geralt decides to press the issue, outlining a travel plan for them one more time. “We could stop in Novigrad,” he offers, voice lilting up. “Make one more sojourn through the North before heading down toward the Golden Towers…”

Regis looks long at Geralt, as if memorizing the lines of his face. “It’s a tempting thought,” he concedes, glancing down to the witcher’s chest, ghosting his hands over Geralt’s scars. “I don’t think you’ve any idea _how_ tempting,” he whispers, barely audible.

Geralt takes a deep breath, placing his own hands atop the vampire’s— _our hearts are beating together_ , he thinks—and waits.

When he speaks again, Regis sounds like he’s decided something—there’s a resolve in his eyes, though it’s still accompanied by concern.

“Listen, Geralt,” Regis begins, and Geralt is fairly sure he’s paid better attention to few other addresses in his life.

“If… _if_ you wish to accompany me…” Regis says cautiously, “I will delay my departure until this evening—I have a few last pieces of business to attend to, anyway. Go gather your things from Corvo Bianco. Meet me back here at the graveyard by sundown... if you are so inclined.”

 _Godsdammit, what is this reluctance?_ He should just demand Regis tell him already, no more games—but the idea that Regis doesn’t feel the same as he does, doesn’t actually want to continue this… He can’t quite ask it outright.

Instead, Geralt simply says, “We could just leave together, in the morning—I could send for my things later—”

Regis leans in closer, and presses a kiss to Geralt’s forehead. “Go back to the White Raven, White Wolf. See what you find there.”

“What does that mean?”

Regis raises an eyebrow. “Surely I don’t have to tell a witcher— _you_ especially—about the Law of Surprise—’what you find at home yet don't expect?’ It’s been known to happen. You’ll be wanting the Mutagenerator I left for you, at the least.”

That’s… a mouthful of a word, even for Regis. “The what?”

“Ah, I’ve said entirely too much. Which I’m sure is no great shock to you,” he adds in cheery self-derision.

Uncertainty is heavy in the air, and Geralt backs down from confronting it.

 _Something is ending_ , he thinks, not for the first time, _and something is beginning_. But he’s not sure which is which.

“Sleep on it, Geralt. Get that bit of rest you deserve, my darling.” Regis glances upward at that; Geralt isn’t sure if he’s looking at the stone ceiling of the room or indicating the graveyard above them. A wry smile breaks on his face. “ _Requiescat in pace_ ,” he adds, chortling quietly to himself, apparently a private joke.

Geralt twists his mouth downward, harrumphing. He’s not going to ask for a translation.

“Sleep peacefully, my dear,” Regis clarifies.

And that… well, _that_ is a directive Geralt can protest rather emphatically.

“ _No_ ,” he tells Regis, and takes the vampire’s lower lip between his teeth, worrying it and sucking on it greedily.

Truth be told, Geralt _is_ looking forward to sleep—real sleep, not just meditation: letting his brain go completely dark, a true, deep rest of the kind he’s rarely allowed to have. Curling up in Regis’s bed—in his arms—means Geralt can be the vulnerable one for once, protected instead of protector. Just one more of the nearly innumerable benefits of having a very powerful higher vampire for a lover, it seems.

So, yes, sleep is definitely on the horizon for him tonight.

But not yet.

Geralt releases Regis, whose brows have leapt halfway up his forehead. The witcher smiles archly at him.

“No rest for the wicked, I’m afraid,” he informs Regis matter-of-factly. “I’ve got you for the rest of the night, which is nowhere near over. And,” he kisses Regis again, and strokes the flesh of Regis’s side provocatively, providing him just a bit more incentive to stay awake, “you’re mad if you think I’m going to waste it.”

“As you say, _cordis carmen mei,_ ” Regis acquiesces with a grin, and kisses him back fiercely.

Neither of them says much of anything for some time after that.

* * *

When he awakens, Geralt finds himself alone, and he’s not even terribly surprised or hurt by that fact.

In contrast to fireside tales of vampires fleeing from the light of dawn, Regis has always been an early riser, declaring the quiet just after sunup a perfect time for contemplation; Geralt can only imagine, with his departure imminent, Regis likely has even more on his mind than usual.

The sheets are no longer suffused with any of Regis’s lingering warmth, so he’s likely been gone a while, but they do still bear a trace of his twin smells—the close, heavy scent of herbs, and the ethereal ambience of iron and— _what’s the godsdamned word?_ —the damp of the earth after a storm.

Shaking off the muzziness of sleep and reluctantly extricating himself from the bedclothes, Geralt groans as he replaces his shirt and breeches followed by his armor. It feels heavier than it ought to this morning, and, well…

It’s not uncommon for him to emerge somewhat battered and bruised after several rounds with a monster, but it’s never happened exactly like this before.

_(“Love bites,” Regis had cooed, prying his lips away from Geralt’s exposed hip. “I was always a little unclear on the sentiment behind them—understandable, given my background, I think—but now I find I’m quite fond of them. Oh, this one’s going to turn a lovely shade of purple...”)_

It wasn’t particularly impressive as prophecies went, but—Geralt pulls his undershirt up one more time before donning his abdominal armor, reviewing the constellation of contusions and scratches decorating his stomach and disappearing below the waist of his trousers—it did turn out to be quite true.

They may not be as permanent as as Geralt would have liked, but the marks bestowed on him were definitely placed there with love, and there are certainly a multitude of them, he thinks, pulling on his boots.

He tries not to dwell on whether he’ll be getting any more of them in the future.

Regis’s pack is still in his study, a sign seeming to indicate that he’ll be back for it later in the day, as he said he would be. The small bottle containing Dettlaff’s finger, however, no longer appears to be present.

Geralt tries not to dwell on that, either.

On a table near the copper still, Geralt spies a small cloth sack, and a note bearing his name.

Unfolding it, he sees a scribbled word at the top of the page, blotted out to the point of unreadability, before the letter begins properly.

_Dear Geralt,_

_This is the first of two letters you’ll receive from me today, but the more recently written one chronologically. I hope you did, indeed, rest well—I had to be on my way in order to complete my tasks for the day, and I would not have dreamt of depriving you from your well-earned slumber, so in lieu of a more personable ‘good morning’, I trust this note and these small gifts will suffice._

_I chanced upon an Ofieri merchant just over a week past, and bartered with him for the first two of the following items, which I now give to you along with the third, acquired today:_

_A ground powder made from the roasted berries of a flowering plant of the family Rubiaceae, called the Coffea. I have been preparing a drink from it according to the merchant’s direction, steeping the powder in boiling water for a time, then straining it before consumption—I’ve included more detailed instructions below. It is something of an acquired taste, admittedly, but I confess that taking it, particularly in the morning, has become something of a habit for me. I find it provides a pleasant burst of mental stimulation after drinking—though perhaps its effects will not seem so robust to one who is used to witcher decoctions. Still, you’ll have to let me know what you make of it._

_A delicious jam made from a stone fruit known as mango, part of the genus Mangifera. It think it will pair well with the final item,_

_A loaf of brioche I purchased from a boulangerie near the Mettina Gate._

_Together I hope it will serve to break your fast nicely._

There are more words blotted out beneath the list of foodstuffs, about two lines worth. Even with his eye for detail, Geralt can’t make out what they once said.

 _I cannot adequately express in concise fashion how much our time together has meant to me, so I find myself hesitant to even try. Whatever you decide to do, my friend, I wish you all the best, and long to_ (another blot) _hear of your use of the Mutagenerator—perhaps one day I can even create an improved version for you._

_Until we speak again, take care of yourself, Geralt._

_As ever,_

_Your devoted friend,_

_Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy_

 

The goods in the cloth sack are exactly as described—the jar of blackened berry-dust, like large grains of midnight-colored sand, piques Geralt’s curiosity particularly—he gathers up the items and takes one last look around the tomb’s study area.

He’ll be back tonight, he tells himself, but there’s a strange feeling of foreboding fomenting in the pit of his stomach, a gnawing sense that perhaps he’ll never see this place again. He brushes it aside and heads up the stairs.

Regis, it seems, has provided sustenance for both Geralt and his constant hooved companion; Roach is happily munching on hay out of a makeshift trough: a crooked sarcophagus missing its lid.

Placing his breakfast in her saddlebags, Geralt mounts up, turning Roach toward Corvo Bianco, wondering what a Mutagenerator is, and what, besides that, he could possibly find at home that he didn’t expect.

 

Barnabas-Basil Foulty is in rather a mood when Geralt arrives. It’s not an exceptionally rare occurrence, that—B.B. is particular about the way Corvo Bianco is to be run, and takes it poorly when something doesn’t go to plan—but he’s not typically prone to the state Geralt finds him in now: standing just outside the door to the main house, visibly fuming.

Apparently, someone barged in shortly before Geralt’s arrival, not giving B.B. even so much as the time of day, let alone their name.

There were no other horses hitched in the stable when Geralt put Roach away only moments before, but that’s admittedly not much proof of anything; in addition to the distinct possibility that his visitor is a local and simply walked here, Geralt considers that he has an above average number of friends who travel via mist-forms, teleportation, and— _ugh_ —portals.

He opens the door with caution, treading on the balls of his feet, scanning the room, and for a moment, he considers that perhaps Regis’s words before were part of a plan: Regis would finish his errands early and meet Geralt at Corvo Bianco—maybe the vampire himself would be the surprise.

That’s when Geralt smells it. The scent is absolutely unexpected; he’s so shaken by it, something the size of a pixie could easily knock him on his ass.

 _It can’t be,_ he thinks. But there’s no one else that perfume belongs to.

Lilac and gooseberries.

Turning from the main dining room into the study, he sees her: a breathtaking vision, dressed not in her signature black and white ensemble, but a silky black tunic dress encircled with a leather corset. Shimmery teal feathers wreathe her bare shoulders, and lacey stockings peep between the slits of her dress, wrapped sumptuously around her slim thighs. A scarf of darkest blue, the color of a starless sky, is draped loosely about her neck, shimmering in the dim light.

Yen. His Yen. She’s gorgeous.

Something catches in his throat as he tries to speak to her. The feathers. They remind him of raven feathers—gods, how is this possible?

Regis. Regis knew. Or at least, his ravens knew. Regis even tried to tell him, and Geralt refused to believe him—

Regis hadn’t been pushing Geralt away—or at least, if he had, it had only been because he thought Geralt would choose Yen—would _have_ to choose Yen—if he knew she was here.

It might mean losing Geralt, and Regis _still_ wanted him to have the choice.

Fucking _hell_ , what a mess.

She smiles at him, more soft than sultry, although her lavender eyes still flash, hinting at some inner tempest, and he feels himself returning the smile.

He’s drawn to her, even now, like a compass to North—but his heart—his heart is literally beating for someone else—

Regis. _His_ Regis. Tonight, at the cemetery. Their journey. Their happiness.

Gods, what was he supposed to do?

“Yen,” he says finally. “Unexpected as ever.”

* * *

## CHOOSE AN ACTION:

####  [[Invite Yen to stay for dinner at Corvo Bianco.]](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12224247/chapters/27768807) (links to Chapter 2, 'Lilac') 

####  [[Pack a bag and head to La Mère La Chaise-Longue cemetery.]](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12224247/chapters/27768831) (links to Chapter 3, 'Petrichor') 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes are at the end of the second epilogue, [Petrichor.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12224247/chapters/27768831)


	2. Lilac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caveat that this chapter and the next one (Petrichor) are meant to be mutually exclusive; you are of course welcome to read them both! Just stating that they are meant to be alternate endings.

She couldn’t say what made her decide to wear something other than her favorite riding outfit, the black and white one for which she was known. If pressed, she might say she simply wanted to enjoy the kiss of the Toussaint sunshine on her shoulders.

But that’s no more than a pleasant fabrication.

In truth, though her motives are difficult to divine even to herself at times, she suspects that perhaps she wanted to make herself… different. Transform herself into someone new.

Which is a shit concept, really: new beginnings don’t exist.

Almost everyone she cares about has died and come back at least once now; even in those extraordinary circumstances, you don’t simply get to start over. The memories of the pain and the loss, the essence of the person you were and the things you did… those never really leave you.

But she is a sorceress. She draws power from the earth, from water, and from fire, routinely creating something from nothing (no, not nothing—from pieces of herself—but a casual observer would be forgiven for confusing the two).

There is potency in the act of ritual, and no one knows this better than her. New beginnings may not be naturally occurring, but she’ll be damned if she won’t try to will one into being.

(She keeps the lilac and gooseberry perfume, however—there _are_ limits to the sacrifices she’ll make.)

It’s strange, she thinks, as her stallion canters toward the base of the hill. The houses, the vineyard, the people working there… they’re all Geralt’s now, or under his purview, at least. How strange the whims of royalty can be, to simply hand out large swaths of earth as a gift—to reassign the management of the wellbeing of half a hundred people to a near stranger, with no regard for whether the recipient is up to the task or not.

Geralt is, of course—up to said task. She’s sure of that much—he’s nothing if not both honorable and adaptable—but she is less certain whether he actually _wants_ such a responsibility. 

It’s not simply the idea of Geralt owning property—a rarity for any witcher—but even the notion of him staying in one place is deeply perplexing to her. She knows that he had stayed for a time at Kaer Morhen, after they had both been abducted by the Hunt, but, well, that had been time spent with Triss. Yen herself had never seen him stationary, committed to a place—or a person. Or had she simply been seeing him through the same lens with which she viewed herself?

All that aside, it’s a lovely fantasy, really, the one she’s been daydreaming on the ride to Corvo Bianco.

An endless procession of seasons, marked by only mild temperature changes and the subtle shift of shorter and longer days.

Geralt settling in as master of the estate, transforming slowly, reluctantly, into a gentleman of leisure, albeit quite an earthy one—perhaps occasionally vanquishing a ghoul in a neighboring meadow as a personal favor to a friend, but largely devoting himself to woodworking or something equally stoic-yet-manful. She can picture laugh lines working themselves deeper into his face as the years drift by.

And her beside him, aging as well, not because she has to, but because she wants to—allowing herself the luxury of crow’s feet, which arrive as she squints at the pages of endless texts, finally indulging in all the pleasure reading she’s put off over the years. A shock of grey hair coming in at her temple, a softness that contrasts her piercing violet eyes, but accentuates her black-and-white aesthetic perfectly.

And their daughter, bright-hearted and beautiful and ashen-haired, with eyes that put the landscape of this verdant fairy-tale land to shame. She visits them occasionally, sometimes with a boy or girl in tow, but often alone, regaling them with stories of gryphons and ekkimaras and zeugals, making them laugh until they cry and wonder what they did to deserve such a radiant star of kindness circling in their orbit.

Yennefer ties the horse to a fence post at the bottom of the hill, and walks the rest of the way up to the main house. She garners a few looks from farmhands amid the rows of trellises, but worries little about the attention they might attempt to pay her: the anti-glamor she’s placed on herself makes it difficult for anyone to stare directly at her, and within moments of her passing from view, they forget they’ve even seen her.

One exception to the effectiveness of the charm, however, seems to be Geralt’s groundskeeper; Master Foulty is quite a devoted, persistent gentleman, intercepting her and attempting to prevent her entrance to the witcher’s residence. With a flick of her wrist and a roll of her eyes, she dims his glasses, blocking out his vision momentarily, and saunters past him without a word.

As annoyed as she was at his presence, she can’t condemn Foulty’s handiwork: the house is in a lovely state of repair, and an enticing scent wafts in from what must be the kitchen. It’s a charming place, and she amends the setting of her earlier reverie accordingly to more closely match reality.

She takes a seat in the small study, and waits.

* * *

She hears him talking to Barnabas-Basil just outside the front door, and stands up, eager as some bloody novice at Aretuza at the sound of the headmistress's footsteps.

Well, she _is_ excited to see him.

Foulty seems to have shaken at least some of the memory-blotting aspects of the charm, informing Geralt that he has a visitor, but providing no details about who said guest might be.

If she hadn’t spent years with the witcher, and grown accustomed to his ability to stalk his prey in near silence, she might not have known he had entered the house at all. She waits for him to prowl in her direction, barely breathing.

Geralt.

He’s as handsome as ever, maybe moreso. His armor has been cleaned recently, and his beard is neatly trimmed—she had heard rumors in the city that an outsider had just been honored at the palace; his kempt appearance seems to confirm her suspicion of the champion’s identity.

More than that, though, there’s something about him that’s different in a way she can’t quite place: he’s… pleased. Glowing, just a bit around the edges.

And then he sees her.

He’s surprised.

That’s good.

It… doesn’t appear to be an entirely pleasant surprise. The glow dims somewhat.

That’s… less fortunate.

He recovers, smiling, but Yen knows better than anyone what Geralt’s fronts and defenses look like; she is simply not used to seeing them turned on her.

“Yen,” he addresses her with the nickname he gave her the first night they met, and her heart skips a beat.

“Unexpected as ever.” His eyes track up and down, taking in her new look. “And beautiful as ever,” he adds. It’s clear the sentiment is heartfelt, but he still seems distant.

What has happened since she saw him last?

She crosses to him, raising her arms, and he reciprocates, embracing her. The points of his wolf medallion poke between the folds of her scarf, digging lightly into her clavicle, a familiar sensation, the comforts and discomforts of loving this man rushing back to her in equal measure.

Squeezing him, her chin tucking over his shoulder, she inhales. He… smells strangely. Not badly. Spicy and savory. Cinnamon, perhaps? Anise? Has he been spending an inordinate amount of time with an herbalist of late?

 _Or fucking some half rate village witch?_ her brain supplies unhelpfully.

It doesn’t matter. It’s none of her business. _Two kestrels_ , she reminds herself. She has a multitude of sins to atone for from their time together, let alone their time apart. He has made no claim on her these past months, and she has none on him.

Is he not even going to question her sudden appearance here? she queries, peering up at him at arm’s length.

“Wouldn’t get a straight answer anyway,” he says almost placidly, and she can’t tell if that’s meant as a wounding strike or playful caress; it’s always been a near thing with them. She takes it in good faith that it’s the latter, or this conversation—and this visit—will be much, much shorter than she had hoped.

It’s so damned tempting, the thought of reaching into his mind, reading his feelings and memories for herself. But there’s an apprehensive flicker in his yellow cat’s eyes, a warning that she may not like what she finds there.

He goes on to say that he no longer minds her having her secrets, fidgeting all the while—that’s new, his hands alternatingly going to his chest and his neck, a sort of nervous twitch—and Yen wonders if that’s his way of saying he might like to be allowed some secrets of his own. Geralt has never really been much for subtlety.

It flies in the face of her every instinct, but she doesn’t push.

“I’ve missed you, Geralt,” she admits. “Madly.”

She moves closer, pushing into his space. He pulls back, his hand going to his neck again, and she sees it, then.

His hand brushes the collar of his armor, moving it away just enough to expose a dark cluster of broken blood vessels: a tiny nebula in aubergine, deepening nearly to black in at least two places.

There’s no question in her mind as to what it is.

Who it came from is another matter entirely.

Geralt sees Yen take it in, and slides his hand over it, taking another step away.

What had she been thinking, showing up unannounced? What an absolute fool she is.

Had she expected him to simply put his life on hold for her? And then be grateful when she barged right back in? Not even acknowledging their last fight?

He has moved on. There is someone else in his life now, and here she is, interrupting—she is an interruption—

“Yen,” Geralt repeats her name, trying to pull her focus, no doubt watching her face betray her mind, careening wildly through possibilities.

“Forgive me, Geralt—I was so presumptuous—”

Removing his gloved hand from his neck, he places it on her shoulder. She flinches, not even trying to stop the reaction.

The dream she had, growing old with her witcher in this odd little southern province, seems all but dashed now.

“I should go,” she tells him—they’re the only words in her mind, the only thing she can say.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he implores, and there’s a hint of desperation in the request. Why? “Please, I just… need a little time to think, all right? It’s been a very… strange week and I… I want to talk. Can you wait just a bit?”

She’s barely processing his words, already halfway down the hill to the vineyard in her mind’s eye, saddling up her steed and wondering how far north she can get before nightfall.

“Yen,” he says yet again, and moves closer, but doesn’t cup her face, demand her attention like she thinks he might have once.

She was trying to make herself different, to change, to have a new life. But somehow Geralt had actually succeeded in creating one for himself, and she isn’t sure she has a place in it.

“Just a little while,” he entreats softly. “ _Please_.”

Her eyes are locked on his chest, but she stares through him. She nods, eventually. “All right. I’ll… be outside. The bench, by the tree.”

He bobs his head quickly, assenting. “Thank you.”

They simply stand there for a moment, neither one moving. Finally, Geralt steps back and turns away, crossing the dining room and disappearing into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

* * *

Standing in dappled light beneath the canopy of the elm just outside one of the storehouses, Yennefer stares at the sweep of the vast valley below and the mountains even further beyond.

She didn’t expect this.

Not Geralt’s behavior—that bit wasn’t terribly surprising. She had no illusions that he would be celibate without her. There had been, of course, in addition to his affair with Triss, a fling with Fringilla Vigo, and she even had her suspicions about Geralt’s involvement with Keira Metz.

She’d been appropriately incensed each time, either running cold—maintaining an impenetrable, icy veneer, and rushing off to fuck someone else for herself—or hot—piercing Geralt with conversational barbs and leaving destroyed furniture in her wake.

But either way, her rage always subsided, and he’d always maintained that she was first in his heart. That was the way of it with them, the choreography of their particular _pas de deux_.

He had made no such move today, however, she noticed. He didn’t have to: it was plain enough in his face that this was no mere dalliance. Whoever Geralt had been with was someone dear to him, and that… that was difficult to consider.

But going their separate ways in anger, as they did when they’d last parted, well, she knew it had always been a possibility.

No, what had been truly unexpected was her own reaction.

She has been kidnapped, tortured, and wounded in battle, to say nothing of the more routine pains associated with her craft, like the agony that accompanies creation magic or the act of drawing from a Source.

She has been to hell and back, and yet, today, she fell apart like a scared child. No fury, no harsh words—she had barely been able to form words at all.

She had wished to become someone else, and maybe she had.

A shadowed silhouette appears on the grass just past her feet. Geralt.

She’s not sure how much time has passed since he dismissed her. She hadn’t been paying the strictest attention, to be honest.

The witcher stands before her with sad but honest eyes, arms hanging at his sides, palms facing her—he gives the impression of a pilgrim seeking some kind of atonement, and that’s… that’s entirely wrong. He needs no absolution from anyone—certainly not from her.

“Tell me what you need, Yen,” he urges her quietly. “What can I do? What… what do you want to know? Do you want to read my mind? Would that be easier, or—”

“Geralt. Please, just... “ She looks about, eye catching the settee a few feet away, and gestures to it. “Sit with me.”

They rest on the cushion’s edge, bodies pointed straight ahead, not touching one another—their postures similar to that of strangers seated at a pub bench facing a stage, waiting for some troubadour to perform, save for their bowed heads and downcast eyes.

“I’m sorry, Geralt,” she says softly. “We fought, and I had said… well, a great many things. Awful things. But most importantly, I said we were through, for good and all, and you had no reason not to believe me.”

“Except,” Geralt adds quietly, “all the other times we’ve promised to be through with one another.”

A corner of her mouth turns up fractionally, the bittersweet nostalgia of the situation not lost on her. “I would have given anything for you to take me at my word some of those times. But we always seemed to find one another again.”

She stares into the distance again, not quite seeing the horizon in front of her.

“I have now realized that my thesis behind this visit was entirely wrongly conceived. On the way here, I kept thinking that… While I suspect I’ll continue to dabble in it for the rest of my life, I’ve accomplished what I wanted to in the way of sorcery—not to mention politics. More importantly, Ciri is grown—and strong, and able, and I couldn’t be more proud of her.

“The way before me is suddenly… empty. I have no goal, no plan, and it came to me, somehow... that you were my reward at the end of the path. And I see now I never should have thought of you that way—not when we first met, and not now.”

Yen begins to turn her head, but can’t quite look at Geralt’s face, not yet. She lets her focus fall on his knee, a few inches from her own.

“I have, as I think you know, for years now, pit my legacy—what I could achieve in my career— against what I could have with you: two rival concepts I could never reconcile. And I see now I should have thought about what we could achieve _together_.”

Something catches in her throat and she takes a steadying breath in through her nose. She will _not_ cry. In addition to the fact that there was nothing worse than a sniveling, tearful sorceress, she would die before she gave credence to that damnable song—”violet eyes, glistening as you weep,” her foot.

“I have made my own bed,” she goes on, “and if I must lie in it now alone, well, that is my own affair.”

She pivots in his direction, finally looking at him, and he turns in kind, as a leaf pulled along in her current.

“If you want me to go, I’ll go—”

Large hands clasp hers in an instant. Geralt’s voice is warm, beseeching.

“Yen, stay. Please stay. I’d like to talk to you some more. You have nothing to apologize for. We both have regrets.”

He traces his calloused thumbs back and forth over her knuckles a few times, his gaze dipping down, suddenly pensive.

“I... _do_ have to leave for short while tonight. To take care of a personal matter.” He pauses. “I have to say goodbye to a friend who’s leaving Toussaint.”

Ah. So they’re going to discuss it, then, after all?

Still mildly afraid of the answer, Yen nonetheless voices the question: “Is that… what you want to say to them? ‘Goodbye’?”

Geralt gives a grim laugh and glances toward the valley.

“Honestly? No. But I haven’t been able to convince them to stay, and I…” He looks back at their entangled fingers. “Maybe it’s better, in the end. That they leave. And that I stay.”

She should stop herself there, leave him to his own introspection, but she can’t seem to control her tongue today, saying either too much or too little.

“You don’t want to go with them?” she asks, prodding. “With… her?”

Geralt looks back at her, eyes wider than before. “Not talking about a ‘her’.”

Yen nearly scowls, then, about to pull her hand away; if Geralt is trying to imply that the situation is somehow platonic by lying about the gender of the person involved, he should just come right out with it. She _saw_ the damn bruise; that’s not the sort of injury one receives from hunting monsters. How brainless does he think she is?

Does he think he’s doing her a kindness by trying to deceive her? These… supposedly ‘tender’ falsehoods are the reason she started reading minds in the first place. It would have been better if he’d simply left it alone, rather than _lie_ about it—

But as her thoughts spin out of control, she notices Geralt has remained absolutely still. He raises an eyebrow, saying nothing, waiting, patient as Lebioda, for Yen to perceive the simplicity of his words.

She reinterprets his statement, then, and blinks repeatedly. He’s not denying the nature of his relationship with this ‘friend’—she made that assumption herself.

No, he’s just saying _exactly_ what he needs to.

“Oh,” she says stupidly, freezing up. “ _Oh_.”

“He’s leaving at sundown,” Geralt explains, making no attempt to hide anything now. “And I would like to say goodbye to him. But…”

He brings their joined hands to his mouth, placing a kiss on the back of her gloved fingers.

“We have this time, now, before I head out. And if you’re free later on, I’d like you to stay for dinner. Let’s take it slowly, Yen.” He laughs on a soft exhale. “I realize that’s, ah, not our forté. But. I want to try something new.”

She nods in return, probably a little too quickly, but Geralt doesn’t seem to think the less of her for it. He slides a hand up her arm, as if gentling a spooked animal, as if _she’s_ the one in danger of running away.

“And if that goes well…” he tells her, “Maybe we could have dinner again tomorrow. And the day after that. And every day, until you want to have your things brought here.” He shrugs and looks away in forced casualness. “Or, until you don’t want to anymore.”

The invitation is the diametric opposite of everything she’s ever known from their history, whether fucking in the rubble after being attacked by a djinn, or a passionate tryst beside a Belleteyn bonfire. But she finds she likes the sound of it all the same. Her vision of their quiet life together starts to fall back into place in her mind.

She takes a deep breath, and catches a whiff of something delicious floating toward them from the main house.

“I think,” she says, smiling, “the latter day will be quite a while in coming, if the smell of your kitchen is anything to go by.”

Geralt returns the grin. “Marlene is a wonder. You’ll like her. And she’ll like you.”

His pleased expression warms her heart; it’s enough to make her forget herself, and she leans in instinctively for a kiss. Geralt returns it slowly, keeping the pace gentle, preventing it from turning overly passionate.

“I’m sorry,” Yen sighs, forehead resting against the witcher’s. “We’re supposed to go slow. Old habits…”

“It’s a challenge,” he agrees happily, but doesn’t move to initiate another kiss.

He does, however, lean back into the inclined end of the settee, stretching out his legs behind her, reclining lazily and opening his arms invitingly. She lies back, curling up to next to him, enjoying the combined warmth of his body and the mid-morning sun.

They catch up, Yen telling him of her recent travels, and the last time she ran into Ciri—the novice witcher had taken a contract on a Leshen, but was conflicted on how to handle it—and of her arrival in Toussaint.

Geralt regales her with the harrowing tale of the Beast of Beauclair—which is, frankly, edifying, regarding why the town looked in such a shambles during her ride through Gran’ Place yesterday. He mentions briefly the ceremony in his honor at Beauclair Palace, and Yen laughs when he tells her of the unicorns—both the false one at the royal party, and the ‘real’ ones in Syanna’s storybook realm.

If she didn’t have evidence to the contrary, she might have originally thought Geralt’s mystery lover to be either the duchess Anarietta or her cursed sister, but neither seemed to fit the description Geralt gave.

The cast of male characters in his story cycle through her mind, and she can’t help but wonder who his paramour might be—the brash captain of the guard, perhaps? She has a hard time imagining it, suspecting there’s perhaps someone he’s purposefully left out of the narrative. Eventually, he ends his story, and she gives up trying to guess.

They talk of things they’d like to do in Toussaint, both in the town and at home. She mentions having to send for her books, admitting the handful she brought with her this time are merely for her own amusement.

“ _A Widower for Half a Year_ ,” she lists the titles off nonchalantly. “ _Name of the Orchid_. I confess, I even picked up a copy of _Moribundia: The Vampire's Last Likeness_ , despite that I’ve heard it’s absolute garbage.”

Geralt seems to go a shade paler at that, and at first Yen wonders if the reaction is a criticism of her taste in reading material, then remembers that he recently had to slay a vampire to complete Anarietta’s contract. Perhaps his distaste is more professional in nature.

Eventually, he shrugs. “Far be it from me to judge,” he says, giving his final word on the matter.

The sun travels in a lazy arc overhead as they talk, and eventually begins to sink.

Geralt unwinds himself from her and gets to his feet, and she sits up, fixing her hair.

“I’ll be back shortly,” he tells her, not meeting her eyes. “I was just going to put something away in my lab, and then—”

“You have a laboratory?” she blurts out in her excitement.

“Yeah,” he confirms, laughing. “‘No goal’ my ass,” he mocks. “You couldn’t stop working if you tried.”

Untwisting the folds of her dress and standing, she replies, voice defiant, “There _are_ such things as personal projects, you know. Shall I take your supplies down to the lab for you?” she proposes. “I’d like to see it for myself, and you need to be on your way.”

“If you want,” Geralt answers, face and voice carefully neutral. “The… contraption… It’s on my nightstand in the bedroom.”

 _It’s a gift,_ Yen realizes. _From him_.

Her curiosity is instantly rekindled. Who the _hell_ had Geralt been fucking?

The thought must show in her face, because Geralt looks like he’s just had a hot poker shoved in an uncomfortable place. 

“Yen, just so you know... He and I… We didn’t… not here.” His sentence grinds to an awkward halt. “ _Please_ don’t throw my bed down the hillside,” he begs. “It’s new.”

All right, she can laugh at herself about that.

“I trust I’ll be able to restrain myself,” she smirks. “You had better get going.”

She reaches for him, taking his face in her hands and placing a peck on his lips.

“Geralt,” she begins, brow furrowing slightly. “Has your friend... been good to you? Kind?”

His voice is thick with emotion when he replies.

“Yeah,” he shuts his eyes briefly. “Yeah, he has.”

“Good. I’m glad of it,” she tells him, and she finds that she means it. She sincerely hopes that she would feel the same if she were in this unknown man’s shoes, on the receiving end of a farewell.

“I’ll see you later,” he whispers, fingering a lock of her hair one more time before heading off down the hill.

When she heads back to the main house, she smiles at Barnabas-Basil, and he even manages a half-smile back at her.

* * *

_If you are reading these words, it means I am already far beyond the borders of Toussaint—_

That’s how the letter starts.

Of course she’s reading it. It’s right there on the bedside table, next to the device Geralt had told her about. He could have hidden the missive away if it was too private, after all.

She scans the page, seeking the signature line immediately, unable to control her desire to unravel of mystery of Geralt’s lover’s identity.

 _Emiel Regis Rohellec…_ The name goes on and on. Rather ostentatious, that title. Even to someone named ‘Yennefer of Vengerberg’.

Could he be a sorcerer? Geralt always did fancy magic users for some reason, though she knows no spellcasters of particular renown residing in Toussaint.

She turns the name over in her mind, and it finally clicks.

Regis. Emiel Regis. The vampire. From Stygga castle.

She hadn’t known him at all except for in Geralt’s stories. He was in her presence for a scant minute or so, during which time he helped Geralt rescue her and Ciri, and sacrificed his own life for the three of them; Vilgefortz cruelly immolated Regis before her own eyes.

Apparently vampires are more difficult to kill than she had realized.

And Geralt has… broader tastes than she been aware of as well, evidently.

(Perhaps she’ll move _Moribundia_ to the end of her reading list.)

 _Regis_ , she thinks. Geralt had described him as one of the best friends he’d ever had; apparently, that friendship had transcended to something more, at least for a while.

A sadness stirs in her briefly on his behalf—and yes, inevitably, there’s a shred of jealousy present, too—she’s not sure how she’d feel, meeting him face-to-face should he change his mind, deciding to remain in Toussaint.

But as she recalls the look on Geralt’s face when he first came home, she can only smile: Regis kept Geralt safe and, moreover, made him happy—knowing the witcher as well as she does, she’s aware that that’s no small task.

 _Thank you for looking after him_ , she thinks at last.

The note goes on at some length about a ‘mutagenerator’—that must be the shiny book-sized device on the table. Her professional curiosity, ample as it is, is won over by her need for gossip and clues to Geralt’s life these past few months, so she skims quickly through Regis’s technical descriptions of his gift, until she comes to what appears to be a more personal message.

_One last thing, Geralt: having not the power of a seer, I cannot ascertain the truth of rumors I have heard in town over the past day or so. That said, I have a sneaking suspicion that you may be receiving a visitor of some import very soon at your estate; I merely want to congratulate you, if that is the case._

_Dandelion once told me a story about your encounter with a golden dragon, who informed you that your love with a particular sorceress, while perfectly suited, was ultimately doomed._

_I hope this is not a prophecy you have taken to heart. You would do well to recall that dragons are creatures of the air—flighty, inconstant—and as such, their words are little more than wind._

_Vampires, on the other hand, are of heartier stock: earthy, enduring, invariant… I think you take my meaning. So, while not I am not a dragon, I do happen to be a nearly immortal beast myself, and would be pleased if you’d allow me to offer myself as oracle._

_I present you with this alternative prognostication, especially fitting given the location of your new home here in Toussaint:_

_You and she will live happily ever after._

The letter ends with Regis signing himself as _Your friend in all things,_ and Yen finds that a very pleasant and accurate description indeed.

She replaces the note on the nightstand, and takes the mutagenerator in both hands to deliver it to the lab, pausing only a moment in the dining room to note that she _must_ hurry back to find out who this Marlene is, and what she’s making for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes are at the end of the second epilogue, [Petrichor.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12224247/chapters/27768831)


	3. Petrichor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caveat that this chapter and the previous one (Lilac) are meant to be mutually exclusive; you are of course welcome to read them both! Just stating that they are meant to be alternate endings.

The sky is fire itself, luminous, in an absolutely breathtaking shade of molten orange. The color fairly drenches the fairy tale city of Beauclair, less than half a league to the west, making it look even more otherworldly, like a wish or a curse could remove it from one’s sight forever.

Regis leans against the oak tree near the mausoleum, catching glimpses of the city through the treeline. Against his will, he drags his focus away from the city to the western edge of the cemetery, marked by two crumbling stone plinths, and the path that lies just beyond it.

No one approaches. There’s no sound of footfalls or hooves striking stone. Just as there hadn’t been the last several times he was compelled to look. He turns away, listening to the distant clipped cawing of ravens, calling to one another in a far copse of trees.

They won’t come near him now. He doesn’t blame them. Oh, he could compel them to obey with mesmerism, of course, but that seems excessively cruel, considering.

The one he killed for its blood had been a juvenile—it _did_ seem a shame, cutting it down in the prime of its life, but the alternative was executing an elder bird, and that was, in Regis’s mind, the greater sin by far.

The adolescent birds travel in flocks, the adults in mating pairs. The group would recover in time, but the idea of slaughtering a bird with a pair bond, leaving its partner to cry out for it endlessly, unable to comprehend that it would never return, is heartbreaking to him.

Ravens mate for life, he muses. He wonders if that behavior would persist if their lives were as long as certain other creatures.

A breeze ruffles the leaves of the greenery sprawling around and shooting up through the unkempt graves. There’s a crisp, chilly note in the air beneath its floral warmth: it smells of anthocyanin pigments and chlorophyll death. His other senses tell him that autumn is not so very far away as his eyes would have him believe.

Soon, the season of lavender will give way to the season of pears. The duchy’s small villages will smell overwhelmingly of roasting chestnuts, and their inhabitants will don knit scarves—not because the weather demands it, but because they are a comfort to the physical body as well as the soul. The days will get shorter, harvest time will be celebrated, and, of course, one cannot forget the event beloved of the common folk and elites alike, the Festival of the Vat. It will all happen without him here.

His desire to immerse himself in the logic and order of Nilfgaardian society, though sincere indeed, is not oustripped by his hope that the orderly southerners, too, have their own traditions he can observe them observing. He would learn them, then tire of them, and then, yes, ignore them, given enough time—Regis _always_ has an abundance of time—but in this moment, their beloved holidays and celebrations are unknown to him, and he will once again acquire knowledge he did not previously have, and that will be satisfaction enough. It has to be.

(The western path to the cemetery is still empty of travelers. Too soon. He had looked again too soon. The sun is only half masked by the horizon. He should postpone looking again for some time, he chides himself.)

As much as legend and superstition are the genesis of a great many vexations in his own life, even a rational, fact-hungry mind like his own often could find a speck of truth to them.

Mandrake, for example, and the elaborate and fantastical extraction procedures humans had formulated, involving tying ropes unsuspecting farm animals to try and retrieve the plant—Regis recalls Dandelion’s fervent belief in such stories and smiles briefly.

The strange ritual, though, _might_ spare the picker from receiving some of the plant’s anticholinergic and hallucinogenic effect, delivered via alkaloids in the leaves. There was, to put it concisely, method in the madness.

But as for its designation as the “love apple”, and tales of its aphrodisiacal effect… _well_.

Regis raises a hand to cover his face, grimacing and massaging his temples between his thumb and forefinger.

Any change to his love life was probably less the kernel of scientific accuracy in mandrake folklore, and more Regis’s own fault.

Perhaps he himself _had_ gotten too close to the unprepared root of mandragora, because his sleeping with the witcher could only be classified as an act of insanity. What had he been _thinking_?

He could not and did not blame himself for _wanting_ the witcher—that was easy enough. It came to him as effortlessly as breathing, and he suspected it was so for a great many people who met Geralt, not merely the sorceresses that (Regis assumed, until recently) were the preferred objects of his passion. Geralt was charismatic, possibly beyond his own knowledge of it, and caring, as much as he adamantly resisted being described as such.

Regis had wanted him from nearly the beginning.

When Geralt had first learned what Regis was, the witcher had held a sword to Regis’s throat, nostrils flaring, rage rolling off of him in waves, beyond incensed at being so deceived, and so indebted to one as wicked a vampire.

And Regis had smiled and smiled in return—further provoking Geralt, no doubt—but he couldn’t help it. He was so absolutely taken with the idea of this honorable young man (well, for a certain definition of young) and the unshakability of his convictions, the naiveté that still allowed him to see the world in black and white. The fierceness of his belief, the fire in his golden moonlit eyes, the tensely held lines of his body: all of it was beautiful. It would be fitting, would be a _pleasure,_ even, to be killed by such a man, and he wondered what Geralt would have thought—would think, even now—if he knew that Regis had been growing thicker, stiffer under his robes as the witcher threatened to slaughter him.

After that confrontation, however, they became friends—very good friends indeed, and Regis managed to distance and eventually detach himself from his desire. It was preferable for Geralt, their traveling companions, and for himself as well.

He was quite practiced at excising inappropriate wants and needs from himself, of course. Ironically, it reminded him of the human medical practice of bloodletting: draining away the rotten parts of oneself as a curative, an attempt to restore balance to more acceptable humours.

Perhaps it shared another trait with that procedure as well, in that it did not actually produce any sort of permanent result.

(—he is not looking to the cemetery gate, he is _not_ , and he damns himself for even _thinking_ of it—)

No, his wanting of the witcher was not evidence of a descent into madness—he considered it more a symptom of his still being alive.

But allowing himself to act on that want? _That_ had been utter lunacy.

He could blame some of his failing on a weakness of both mind and body. The ordeal at Tesham Mutna—both visits there, really—had taxed his resolve to the extreme, and the addition of alcohol to his system certainly hadn’t helped his wavering judgement, either.

But ultimately, it was Geralt himself that undid Regis. As if reciting dialogue from one of Regis’s most private fantasies, Geralt _asked_ Regis to take him to bed. And Regis had objected at first, he _had_ … But the witcher was insistent, and in the end, Regis wanted to relent, to be helpful and needed. He wanted to give Geralt what he was after, even if it was somewhat incomprehensible to the vampire that what Geralt was after was _him_.

He can feel what they did last night resonating in every part of him. His skin is vibrating with it. Like the lingering notes of a melody—or no, like a maelstrom—swirling, violent—

—bloody hells, there aren’t similes enough for this. Is he in love? Is he dying? It’s been well over a hundred years since he was in danger of either, and his own body feels so desperately strange, even to him.

Whether his rebellious interior is storm or song, it matters little: he is shaken, moved, and ultimately left incomplete—the tones echo on, unresolved; the uncomfortable damp of the deluge remains, absent of sun.

More bluntly: as if what they did together wasn’t enough, he’s haunted by the thought of everything they _didn’t_ do—and will likely never do.

 _Not tonight_ , he told Geralt when the witcher had very nearly offered himself up to be tasted.

Some tiny modicum of self-control exerted itself in him. Regis refused: what escaped his lips was _not tonight_.

Not _no_. Not _never_. Not _I couldn’t possibly_. He _very_ possibly could.

Saliva pools in his mouth, even now, as he imagines himself saying _yes_.

Imagines slicing open the witcher’s skin and clasping his mouth over the exquisite gash. Imagines the hot, sweet wetness of Geralt’s lifeblood flowing into him, a gentle burning sensation lighting up his chest, intoxicating him, filling him with a freeing, giddy sensation, and making his cock impossibly harder.

He had always described his relationship with blood to humans in terms of alcohol addiction, because it was the nearest thing he could think of to get his point across. But they were not one and the same.

Like booze, blood addled his mind, removed him from his rationality, and made every drink after the first easier to say yes to.

But the similarity ends there. Humans don’t need alcohol to be… well… _human_. It is not their _sine qua non_ , so to speak.

He doesn't regret his many years of abstinence, of course, but neither can he pretend that, during them, he has been whole. The drinking of blood revives vampires in a subtler way, healing them in the longer term—the immediate needs of human hunger or thirst are poor comparisons. Insufficient blood intake is really much more akin to insomnia, a chronic debilitating lack of sleep. His body cannot rest or heal, not properly.

Yes, he can survive without blood, that much is obvious. But survival, as Dettlaff had told him once, was a far cry from _living_.

And then suddenly, there was Geralt, willingly offering Regis _everything_ he had wanted, all at once, his body _and_ his blood—and Regis could only find the courage to say yes to one.

It was the right choice—the only one he could have made in the moment, really. His tolerance was dangerously low; the bloodlust in the cage had shown him that much. A few ounces would _ruin_ him, tear down all his carefully constructed barriers, and he couldn’t risk that—not with Geralt, who meant—who still means—so much to him.

But. If Geralt were to return to him, they might be able to try again, ease into it. If they had more time—

(—the sky has gone lilac in color, the light will be gone soon enough—no need to look—there’s no one there, why bother looking? He’d hear anyone approaching, even someone as nimble as a witcher—)

They don’t, though. That much is clear.

He shifts against the tree, the bark scraping against his back, and stares at the dirt. He feels awful.

His damned traitorous pulse, that’s probably at the core of his discomfort—his physical discomfort, anyway. His heartbeat is still three, possibly four times slower than the average human’s, but to Regis, its pace is runaway, careening out of control, chasing after something perpetually beyond the horizon he’ll never lay his sights to.

He needs to let this go, to ground himself in the reality of the situation. He was probably foolish to have even considered that he’d depart Toussaint as anything other than alone.

The witcher must be well settled in now with his lovely companion. The wight-cum-housekeeper must have prepared them a delicious meal; they’d be polishing off the final morsels now, and washing them down with a taste of something sumptuous from the a nearby vineyard.

It hurts like a knife’s wound to think it, but he thinks it anyway, because he rarely shies away from the truth, and it is nothing if not true: Geralt and Yennefer must be absolutely _gorgeous_ when they make love. Any number of Toussaint’s artists would salivate at the opportunity to paint them, bringing them to life in bold chiaroscuro, further highlighting their differences: the bright white of his hair and the dark of hers, the flawlessness and fluidity of her skin contrasting the scars stretched over the corded muscle of his form.

Regis will probably never forget the look or the feel of those scars for as long as he cares to live.

The sun itself has now passed from view, but its light is still reflected in a compressed band of the brilliant hues present before, an ombre of bright pumpkin and apricot highlights giving way to periwinkle and heather, just above the mountain line. The spectrum shimmers, heralding its eminent disappearance, all the more magnificent in its transience. Hovering above, darker shades of the evening are appearing: deep ceruleans and steely cobalts. The stars are not yet visible, but Regis can feel them awaiting day’s end, prepared to offer their own glow in recompense.

Inspired by the dying gasp of what could reasonably called sundown, Regis improvises a title in his mind:

_Final thoughts before embarking on a journey_

He can imagine himself sweeping a quill over a blank journal page as he has countless times in the past, even if he cannot retrieve his writing materials just now. (It is probably just as well: arguably, some thoughts should not be captured for posterity.)

_I am waiting. (Should I be waiting?)_

_I begin to wonder if it’s even possible for a singular, constant perception of self to exist when exposed to the lashing given by a long enough period of time, like a stone ground to sand by the unceasing battering of ocean waves._

_An outcast seeking companionship with another outcast seems as though it should provide succour to both parties, but, in my experience, only ends in disappointment and death._

_Death may give life meaning, but what if, even accepting the great cost imposed by such an end, that meaning is unsatisfactory?_

_What if the same is true of love?_

_I am wanting. (Should I be wanting?)_

_My friend Dettlaff is dead, and my friend Geralt will not return, and I remain sad; it seems likely to be a permanent condition, then._

The crack of a breaking twig wrests Regis from his musing, his head snapping in the direction of the sound, followed by the whole of his person; pushing away from the tree, he casts a frantic glance about the graveyard’s entrance, only to spy…

...a red fox. Its vertically split amber eyes regard him curiously for a moment before it turns on its black socked feet and sprints back into the forest.

Regis sighs, and leans back against the trunk, continuing to wait.

Eventually, the sun’s rays transform into dying embers, attaining a shade of rich cinnabar before disappearing completely.

The stars are still faint, but their points of light are distinct now. Regis can begin to make out the brighter fragments of certain constellations—the dragon’s tail, the warrior’s belt, the dryad’s crown—and is pleased for their company: familiar friends that are older than he is.

He hoists his pack onto his back, and collects his walking stick, and gives one last look about the headstones—for what, he isn’t sure, exactly. He can’t be missing anything he expected to have.

His feet feel heavy, as rooted to the earth as the oak itself, but manages with some effort to wrench one up from the ground in an initial step, followed by another and then another.

“ _Sic itur ad astra_ ,” he whispers to himself with almost no conviction, and sets off toward the cemetery’s eastern gate.

* * *

He is not far past Francollarts, having shifted course slightly west to join the main road headed south (taking him out of the path of Tesham Mutna, thankfully), when he hears a curious din.

Regis tenses; he should have been more alert, should have smelled the other creature—or creatures—before now. _Damn_ him for being so absorbed in his own melancholy.

He focuses in the sound’s direction, letting his claws extend their points fractionally, fully on his guard now.

Hidden by a thicket to his right, just up the way on a small forked path, a traveller seems to be—if the ruckus is any indication—struggling with his horse.

Regis sniffs again: no, not a horse—at least, not _just_ a horse—a mule, too—and—

_—wait—_

—the scent spikes through him, making the trip from his brain to his groin and back again in half an instant—

Leather and iron. Silver and meteorite steel. Musk and sweat and fading perfumes, and something underneath: the scent Regis has come to associate with the cloying sweetness of mutated blood.

He can barely let himself believe what he smells when he hears a curse uttered in an unmistakably metallic tone.

“ _Dammit_ , you stubborn—”

If Regis had thought his pulse was hurried before, he was wholly mistaken: beating like the wings of a sparrow avoiding the talons of a hawk, it _flies_ now.

Whinnies and hoofbeats follow, and Regis continues ahead, walking as quickly as he can without breaking into a run to meet the noisy group as they approach the main road.

They emerge from the thatch of trees, all three of them: Geralt in the fore, holding the lead for Roach and what appears to be a newly acquired mule. Both animals are fitted with saddlebags; Roach’s in particular look filled to their limit.

Geralt glances in Regis’s direction then, his elongated pupils focusing in the dark, and his expression shifts from irritation at the obstinate beasts to (Regis almost can’t bear to think it) unmitigated joy.

He quickly subdues that rather unwitcherly emotion, however, in favor of a long-suffering smirk.

“Sorry I’m late,” Geralt grumbles, throwing an exasperated glance at the mule walking behind him. “Draakul the Second here wasn’t in nearly as much of a hurry as I was.”

Regis advances a few more steps, stopping a foot from the witcher, almost afraid to draw any closer, as if the vision before him may yet turn out to be a mirage.

“It’s quite alright,” he manages.

“Figured if I was coming with you, you wouldn’t be able to fly, and might appreciate the ride. Also could take a few more things with you. We could stop back at the cemetery if you want to get them. Can’t bring the still with us, though.” Geralt scowls slyly. “You have more luggage than you used to, old man.”

Regis smiles hard for a moment, fangs exposed, feeling the sting of it in his jaw.

“I’ve… a few more burdens than I did before, yes,” he agrees. “They appear to have just lightened somewhat, however.”

Regis looks briefly back up the path, in the direction he’s just come from, considering, then turns back to Geralt.

“If it’s all the same to you,” he tells the witcher, unslinging his rucksack from his back and beginning to fasten it to Draakul’s saddle, “I’d rather keep moving. We can purchase anything we may need along the way.”

Geralt nods, and reaches for Regis’s walking stick, settling his palm atop Regis’s hand for brief seconds before taking the implement and affixing it to Roach’s saddlebags.

“I told Barnabas-Basil to act as master of the house in my absence,” Geralt explains. “And that Ciri’s welcome if she ever drops by.”

He stills, fixating suddenly on some pebbles in the road, and swallows audibly. “I... told Yen she could stay as long as she liked, too. But I, ah… suspect she’ll be on her way soon.”

Regis grimaces in sympathy; he is no stranger to the pain of breaking very old, very dear bonds, even when the break is a necessity; how very wrong it can feel even when it is unquestionably right.

And in truth, Regis is not entirely convinced himself that he will make a more apposite partner for the witcher than a beautiful, talented sorceress.

He places a hand gingerly on Geralt’s arm.

“Geralt—” he starts.

But his attempt at comforting the witcher is truncated and transformed into a soft moan as Geralt covers Regis’s mouth with his own. It’s all Regis can do to not to melt into Geralt entirely, bracing his hands against Geralt’s chest. He slips his tongue into Geralt’s mouth almost immediately, thrilling in the warmth he finds there, the feel of Geralt now both familiar and new.

“Mmm,” Geralt hums, parting the kiss. He holds Regis against him, letting his hands fall to the small of Regis’s back, fingers comfortably interlocked there. Tucking his chin down, he lets his head tip forward so his brow meets Regis’s.

“Needed that,” he tells the vampire dreamily.

“As did I,” Regis says in breathy tones, allowing himself to forget the world for a moment, listening to their hearts sounding almost in tandem. If their harmonisation continues, Geralt will have the slowest pulse of any witcher alive, and Regis will be the most highly strung vampire ever recorded.

Regis doesn’t mind in the slightest—it’s… intriguing, if not entirely comfortable, to feel so present, so… human.

This could be his life now, he thinks. This tenderness, this respite from the dark and loneliness, this chance at true peace.

Truly, a mild tachycardia seems a small price to pay.

A wailing shriek pierces the night, taking Regis back to the previous evening’s encounter with the wraith; from the tension suddenly present in Geralt’s embrace, the thought is not lost on him either.

But wings flap overhead, and it’s clear the cry is nothing more than the hoot of an owl flying past.

Geralt relaxes, but Regis remains uneasy. He attempts to push away from Geralt, only to find himself restrained, Geralt locking his arms even more tightly around his paramour. Regis sighs fondly, allowing himself to be held captive.

“Afraid of someone seeing?” Geralt challenges him.

“Well, in point of fact,” Regis articulates primly, “ _Yes_. Lest you’ve forgotten the reason I am leaving at all, I am something like a fratricide; my guilt is compounded the fact that my crime was committed here in my tribe’s homeland.” He flicks his gaze skyward. “And I am _not_ the only one to occasionally make use of birds as—to use your terminology—spies.”

Geralt gives Regis a wicked half-smile and leans in to kiss him again, emphasizing his feelings by leaning back and lifting Regis up against him, pulling Regis up onto the balls of his feet; involuntarily, Regis scrabbles at Geralt, giving him a chest full of claws for his trouble—but continues kissing him back all the while.

The witcher having finally placed him back on solid ground, Regis narrows his eyes and purses his lips at Geralt, glaring at him in teasing reproach.

“Let ‘em look,” Geralt tells him, all bombast and disarming comeliness.

“You are _incorrigible_ ,” Regis attempts to conceal the amusement in his voice. It _is_ serious—even if Geralt’s possessiveness is tremendously charming. “If you’re seen travelling with me—”

“Regis,” Geralt cuts him off. “I don’t know if you know this about me… But I kill _monsters_ for a living. All the katakans and alps and bruxae in the world _already_ hate me. Not sure if I care much if they want to kill me twice as dead now.”

 _It is not katakans and alps and bruxae I am concerned about_ , Regis thinks, Orianna’s face appearing in his mind clear as day. He shudders to even consider being summoned by the Unseen Elder.

But Regis hasn’t forgotten that Geralt surpasses even Draakul the mule when it comes to bullheadedness, and he has no desire to further discuss the subject at present, merely standing in the road when they could be starting on their way.

“Very well,” Regis mutters, conceding, though continuing to scowl and drum his fingers against the maille of the witcher’s pauldron.

Geralt grins at him, carding his fingers into Regis’s hair, pulling him in to place a kiss on his forehead, inhaling deeply.

“What,” he begins, cockiness gone from his tone, “is the word for the scent of the earth after a rainstorm? It’s been bothering me all day.”

 _Ah_ , Regis thinks. _He noticed that._

“Petrichor?” Regis says brightly.

“ _That’s_ right,” Geralt says, voice sounding like half a sigh, heavy with the contentment of no longer having the word on the tip of his tongue.

He kisses Regis’s hair once more. “That’s right,” he repeats, deep and easy.

They stand, illuminated only by a canopy of stars and a sliver of moon, the night air undisturbed except for the choir of crickets in the fields about them, and the distant rushing of the Sansretour. Regis wishes they weren’t travelling just yet, that he could take the witcher to bed again—not even to make love, although that, too, would be wonderful. At present, he would like nothing more than to curl up next to Geralt and fall fast asleep.

Jingling the hardware of her bridle, Roach shakes her head, seemingly restless; the sound draws Regis away from his inner life. When he moves to separate from Geralt this time, the witcher lets him.

“Shall we?” Geralt asks, looking back at Regis, placing his hands atop Roach’s saddle.

 _It’s time_ , Regis thinks.

“Geralt,” Regis halts the witcher with a gesture. “One more thing, before we leave. I could use your assistance.”

Reaching into his pack, Regis slips a hand inside an interior pocket and clasps his fingers around the object he seeks—a small glass vial containing the tip of a finger.

When he withdraws his hand from the pack and presents what he’s holding to his companion, Geralt looks taken aback, eyes wide with shock and confusion. He opens his mouth once, and then closes it before saying anything.

“I meant what I said,” he tells Regis finally. “I trust you.”

And Regis appreciates it, he does, his lover’s faith in him. But this is something he needs to do, for himself and for his dear friend—and for his future, too, now that he has hope of one again.

He meets Geralt’s gaze, holding it, entirely serious.

“Then trust me in this as well,” Regis says, uncorking the bottle. “Trust that I know what I’m asking.”

Just to the side of the road rests a large boulder. It’s plain for a place of ritual, a last resting place for this last piece of his friend, but Dettlaff was never terribly fussy with regard to his surroundings. Regis supposes he wouldn’t mind the open air setting; Dettlaff had always liked the stars, too.

He did this a scant few days ago, with the rest of Dettlaff’s remains at Tesham Mutna, and perhaps he should have been more emotional at the time, watching Dettlaff’s face and form wither into ash as flame danced over them. But he was so drained, so completely spent, and this last bit of Dettlaff’s tissue he had stored away had been some small comfort to him.

Regis regards the bottle one last time, bringing it to his lips before setting the severed finger on the boulder.

It is time to let go.

He steps back, motioning to the makeshift altar.

“Your Sign of Igni, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Geralt looks at Regis, seeming to search his face for any hint of regret or hesitation. Regis carefully forces himself to move not at all.

The witcher nods once, then throws a hand toward the boulder, fingers splayed at a strange angle, squinting in concentration.

Fire leaps from his hand, engulfing the boulder and the flesh resting atop it.

Regis closes his eyes and inhales smoke, drawing it inside himself, an act both demanded by tradition and required by affection. He intones words of ceremony, words of grievance, words begging forgiveness. He repeats them twice, once in the exacting tongue of Elder Lamia, the crisp words his ancestors brought here from a distant sphere, and again in the harsher, rasping, visceral notes of common vampiric.

_I commend you to our forebears. I commend you to the earth and the air. I commend you to your greater self._

_I wronged you, Dettlaff van der Eretein, brother of my blood, and I beg your forgiveness._

_Rest now, peaceful of heart and quiet of mind._

_I shall miss you, my dear friend, blood of my tribe, till the end of my days._

_Return to ash, return to earth._

He opens his eyes in time to see the last of the skin crackling and disintegrating. He and Geralt remain still, silent sentinels, until the fire burns itself out entirely.

Regis turns to Geralt, wiping his eyes, gratified to know that he is still able to feel such keen pain after all.

“Thank you,” he whispers to Geralt, voice nearly cracking.

Geralt simply nods again in silence.

Without another word, they mount up and and begin their long journey.

* * *

The sun is about to crest the horizon once again, the two of them having ridden the night through, largely without speaking. Regis had spent some of their time in the saddle mourning and reflecting, but eventually his brain moved on, as it often does, to the more productive task of planning.

He estimates they’ll make the ruins of Assengard in about another four days, so it would be preferable if they could find an inn before proceeding too much further—Regis hasn’t given up on the idea of snuggling up against the witcher in some cozy bed in a private room and kissing him breathless before they are bound exclusively to nights with only bedrolls laid upon on the hard ground.

Geralt clears his throat, breaking the silence. Regis smiles at Geralt’s hesitation, obviously reluctant to engage Regis if the vampire is still grief-stricken.

“Yes, dear heart?” Regis responds blithely, formally taking up the witcher in conversation.

Geralt raises an eyebrow fractionally at the pet name, but doesn’t correct Regis, simply looking pleased and perhaps slightly embarrassed as he responds.

“I think,” Geralt muses, “I must've prepared that Ofieri berry-water wrong. It was…” he contorts his face into a moue of distaste. “... _horribly_ bitter.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t enjoy it,” Regis retorts. “It would be well-suited to your personality, then, would it not?”

Geralt actually _groans_ at Regis’s awful joke.

“Oh, gods,” he sighs, shaking his head before looking at Regis with trepidation. “What am I getting myself into?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” Regis admits, eminently pleased. “Isn’t that lovely?”

They share a smile, Regis attempting to memorize the planes of the witcher’s gorgeous visage in the dawn light before turning his attention back to the road ahead.

“My acquaintances in Toussaint largely shared your opinion of the Coffea drink,” Regis goes on. “But they _did_ like its after-effect. So to mitigate the taste, they drank it with cream and sugar. You may like to try it that way,” he suggests.

Geralt pulls an amused half frown. “I’m not really sure it’s a witcher’s drink. I’ll let you keep it all to yourself.”

Regis grins. “As you say, _cordis carmen mei_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Or the beginning? :)
> 
> Notes time!
> 
> _Chapter Mandrake:_
> 
> I don't know if anyone else was bothered by this, but I couldn't figure out, in a world with two different Elvish language variants, where the hell Latin came from and why Regis would know snippets of it.
> 
> So, given that the Witcher takes place in a canonical multiverse (yay), I decided that what we think of as Latin is actually derived from a parent language spoken by Vampires on their homeworld, prior to the Conjunction of Spheres, and that it ended up both on our Earth and the 'earth' of the Witcher stories as well. (This also gives me some covering fire for some of the phrases being, er, unusual. Heh.)
> 
> Thanks a million times over to [Sineala](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala) for her incredible help and patience with the Latin translations I threw at her, completely oddball as they were.
> 
> Things Regis says that you might want a translation for:
> 
> _**cor meum cantat cum corde tuo** \- my heart sings with your heart_
> 
> _**cordis carmen mei** \- my heart’s song_
> 
> I totally made Regis a coffee snob. Freshly ground single-origin Ofieri beans in a ~~French~~ Toussaint press, thank you very much. Addictive personalities tend to transplant their obsessiveness, so he’s going to be all about coffee for a while, I think. And I think he’s very much about the idea that mornings are for coffee and contemplation, too. :)
> 
> _Chapter Lilac:_
> 
> Am I the only one who thought it was super flirty of Regis to leave the Mutagenerator by Geralt’s _bed?_ Does CDPR ship them, too?? :)
> 
> [‘Moribundia’](http://witcher.wikia.com/wiki/Moribundia:_The_Vampire%27s_Last_Likeness) is, of course, the in-game reference to the _Twilight_ series.
> 
> Disclaimer that Yen’s views about the The Wolven Storm are not my own. I personally like it. I just don’t think Yen appreciates it much.
> 
> _Chapter Petrichor:_
> 
> Regis’s musings are based on the in-game journal entry [“My Last Thought Before I Succumb to Sleep”](http://witcher.wikia.com/wiki/My_Last_Thought_Before_I_Succumb_to_Sleep); his thoughts above contain two lines from The Decemberists’ [“A Beginning Song.”](https://genius.com/The-decemberists-a-beginning-song-lyrics)
> 
> Fun fact: did you know the word petrichor wasn’t used until the 1960s? It really sounds like such a good, old word! I was surprised.
> 
> [This story has a tumblr post that you can reblog, if you like!](http://asparrowsfall.tumblr.com/post/165926249262/fic-all-thats-mine-i-carry-with-me-the-witcher)
> 
> Please consider leaving a note if you enjoyed the piece; it would mean the _world_ to me.


End file.
